


Adventures in Solitude (Are You There, Sirius? It’s Me, Draco)

by oceaxe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Femslash, Bisexual Male Character, Christmas, Community: hd_erised, Family, Friendship, Gay Male Character, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Character Death, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Portraits, Romance, Scheming, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-06 18:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Draco is grateful to have had Sirius’ portrait to confide in all those years ago, about his sexuality and unwanted feelings for a classmate named Harry. But when he gets the portrait out of storage after twenty years, the secrets he has kept from Sirius all along come out. Secrets about Draco’s role in the war... and secrets about Harry Potter.





	Adventures in Solitude (Are You There, Sirius? It’s Me, Draco)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strawberryrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryrose/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by the song Adventures in Solitude by the New Pornographers. I’ve had this plot concept for a long time and it was a thrill to finally get the chance to write it. I hope you like it, Strawbs! (StrawbbyG? StrawbsyRose? You can smack me and tell me to shut up)
> 
> Many thanks to A and K for the beta and cheerleading, and to the mods for their patience!

Draco settles himself in the Louis Quinze chair near the sitting room door and the warmth of the fire suffuses his body. He gazes at the paper-wrapped frames stacked in rows against the wall. The portraits are back. They’re all back, and the house elves have managed to prevent any damage in the years they’ve been in storage. He knows which one he wants to see first, but he isn’t sure which parcel contains it. He’ll have to unwrap them one by one. A pleasurable sense of anticipation fills him. It’s been a long time since he felt like this about anything other than the prospect of seeing his son.

Though there’s something in Draco that is reluctant to see his friend again, now that he himself is so much older than he’d been the last time they’d spoken. He had been one of the first to go into storage—a particular pet peeve of Astoria’s had been the way the boy had looked at and spoken to her, with smug condescension, as though he held a secret she was not strong enough to know.

Which, of course, had been true.

Draco peels the paper from one frame and then the next, revealing first his great Aunt Clytemnestra and then some hoary old Malfoy from the thirteenth century. The next likely candidate is underneath several larger and heavier frames, and it takes him a while to free it. As he tears the paper, he hears the slight sound of snoring, almost like a dog whuffling in its sleep, and he smiles. Sirius would sometimes fall asleep while talking to him, something Draco used to put down to bad spellwork but now that he has a teenager of his own, he realizes it’s just part and parcel of being sixteen—long naps and sleeping in and odd hours and mischief.

The paper is off and he can see the young man, stretched out on the brocade divan, a stuffed bird on the wall behind him, along with a few taxidermied house elf heads. How Sirius had hated them, and hated having been painted with them. The bird however, he remembered, Sirius quite liked and referred to as Augusta, for reasons that forever eluded Draco.

“Sirius,” Draco whispers, a faint trembling nervousness in his guts. “Are you there? It’s me, Draco.”

The slim figure of his second cousin jerks, then comes awake all at once with a snort. “Whuzzat!” he says, sitting up and running a hand through his ruffled, jet-black hair, his shirt half-off his shoulder.

There had been a reason Draco had started to visit this painting as a boy, and he is all too aware of it in the moment. He runs a hand over his face, reminding himself of the passing of the years.

Sirius blinks his eyes and leans forward, squinting. “Who are you—Great Mordred, is that Lucius? You look,” he tilts his head, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “much better with short hair.” He’s smirking and lounging back on the divan, youthful insolence incarnate.

Draco coughs and then smiles, which appears to startle Sirius out of his self-satisfaction.

“Hello, Sirius.”

The boy tilts his head the other way, hair falling in his eyes. “You’re not Lucius.”

“No.” Draco finds himself enjoying this moment less than he anticipated. He'd been hoping Sirius would instantly recognize his old friend. Well, the operative word there was "old." Somehow, he hadn't reckoned on the passage of time being so confusing for a portrait.

“You’re—you’re never… Draco?” Sirius looks confused, lost. He shakes himself and looks around. “How long has it been?” he asks, more subdued than Draco has ever seen him.

“It’s been… a while.” He hasn’t visited Sirius since the night he let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Couldn’t bear to. He’d made sure the portrait came with them from the Manor, moved it to the hallway by Astoria’s room. Hoping that she’d take a shine to his favorite portrait, hoping that Sirius would have someone to talk to after years of solitude at the ancestral home, but she hadn’t. The opposite, really.

“It’s been a lot bloody longer than ‘a while,’ you’re balding!” Sirius says, standing up and coming closer. He laughs. “The Malfoy genes win again. A true Black would never lose their hair!” The familiar twinkle is back in his eye.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long. A lot—a lot has happened.” Draco doesn’t know how to address the events of the war, or even if he should. He has never told this Sirius, portrait-Sirius, about Harry Potter. Not as such.

During the first years of school, he wouldn’t even have known exactly why Harry might be relevant to Sirius Black. Only after fifth year, after he been told that his aunt had killed the real Sirius, the living Sirius, during the debacle at the Department of Mysteries, had it become clear why this was such a triumph. The blood traitor, the infidel, was also the godfather of the Dark Lord’s nemesis. The last living tie to his parents, as long as you didn’t count the beggar werewolf.

Sirius had been Draco’s only real friend during the long, lonely years at Hogwarts. How would Draco have told him these things?

“Well, what’s happening now? How old are you, anyway?” Sirius lounges against the divan, looking slovenly and princely at the same time.

“I’m 41 now. I’ve missed you, Sirius.” Draco is surprised to feel tears welling up. It strikes him that he owes this—entity—an apology. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone so long.”

A pained expression crosses Sirius’ face in a flash and is gone. “‘S okay, I’m mostly used to it,” he says, shrugging. “I sleep a lot, it's no big deal.”

“Do you remember… I think my wife might have spoken to you once or twice, a few years back.”

“Your _wife_? You got married to a woman?” The shock in his voice is not imagined.

“Yes,” Draco says, coloring slightly. He clears his throat. “I—it was expected.”

“But what about—what was his name? You told me about a boy at Hogwarts.” Sirius looks upset, accusing. “I told you about Remus and you said—”

“Yes. I remember.”

“You told me you didn’t like girls that way. Did you change your mind?” he spat, getting up and stalking to the bookshelf in the corner.

“No.” Draco has to take a deep breath. He ignores the churning in his stomach. “No, I didn’t. I never changed my mind.” He remembers vividly all the conversations with Sirius about Remus, about boys who like other boys. Those conversations formed the basis of many of their early meetings. Draco had quickly realized that he ought not talk to Sirius about politics, so they had found other things to share.

Those conversations had also formed the basis of Draco realizing who he was, and what he wanted. Who he wanted, specifically. That hadn’t changed.

But the war had changed things. He hadn’t ever been able to bring himself to talk about the war with Sirius, but he knew he needed to now, if he wanted to renew their friendship. It was just a matter of where to start. And how.

This portrait had always been different from the others. More intense, more alive. Most portraits of this nature couldn’t converse as well as Sirius, and certainly didn’t have as much recall of their lives. But Sirius had been a very clever wizard. More than clever. Inventive and brilliant. As Draco had reason to know. It was frequently said that the stronger the wizard or witch, the more lifelike the portrait. It seemed that Sirius had been a very powerful wizard indeed.

Sirius had moved to the flickering fire in the grate, staring into the flames with a pout marring his expression. “Where is Remus, anyway? Do you know yet? You said you’d find out.”

Draco blanches. “He’s… I’m not sure where he is,” he says, avoiding Sirius’ keen gaze. It was technically the truth. He didn’t know where they’d buried Lupin.

“Bollocks. You know.”

Draco sighs. “No, I… Alright, you’re right. I do know what happened to him. He passed away.”

Sirius starts in shock, his eyes wide in his pale face. “But… he wouldn’t even be… werewolves are supposed to live longer than wizards!”

Draco doesn’t know what to say. The boy slumps to the floor, head in his hands. They’re both silent for a long time.

“I’m sorry, Sirius.” Draco hopes there are no more questions, but he knows there will be. He can’t explain Lupin’s death without begging a million more explanations, questions which will beget an infinite regress of bad news. Years ago, he’d learned that once Sirius had started down a line of inquiry, he didn’t let go—very much like a dog with a bone. The only way to distract Sirius from uncomfortable questions is to talk about, well. More prurient things. Or magical theory.

Sirius looks up from where he sits, kneeling on the hearth, his face streaked with tears. “Was he happy?”

“I...I think so,” Draco says, trying to inject more certainty in his tone than he feels. Surely Lupin must have been happy enough, with his wife and new baby, fighting for the cause he believed in. Surely. But now he needs to change the subject, because he can’t answer any more questions in this vein.

“I’m in a new house now,” he says, gesturing into the room with its parquet floors and blue walls, so different from the marble and gilt of the Manor. “Do you want to pick a wall to hang on?”

“You’re hanging me up?” Sirius brightens and stands up. “Oh yeah, your dad must be dead, huh.”

Draco nods, not letting any emotion show. They really don’t need to get into the hows and whys of Lucius’ death at the moment.

“So where’s your wife?” Draco spares a moment to regret having taken this portrait out of storage. Somehow he hadn’t reckoned on all the inconvenient, emotionally loaded questions. He realizes his loneliness must have really gotten out of hand if he was able to disregard all the reasons why Sirius might be difficult to talk to.

“She passed away as well. Long illness.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. That’s… oh crikey, I’m really sorry.”

Draco smiles at the odd Muggle curse word. Sirius had picked up so many ridiculous phrases from his friends.

“It’s fine, Sirius. You didn’t know. She was a lovely person. Are you sure you don’t remember her talking to you, ever?”

He shakes his head regretfully. “What did she look like?”

“She was small and slight, olive skin and dark hair. Family came from the Persian Empire, originally.”

Sirius looks thoughtful. “Yeah. Yeah, I think she did talk to me once or twice. Think I was a bit rude to her, sorry about that.”

“Not to worry. Water under the bridge.” He pauses, then realizes that Scorpius is due home in a few weeks. “She gave me a son.”

“Brilliant! You’re a dad now! I hope you’ll be more like James’ dad than mine.”

“I’m doing the best I can. I like to think I’m doing a fair job of it.”

“You love him? That’s the only thing that matters.”

Draco can’t speak for a moment. He waits until the lump in his throat passes. “I love him very much. More than I ever—Yes, I love him very much.”

“Is he at school? Will I get to see him? What time of year is it, anyway?” He’s like an excited puppy now, coming up closer to the frame and looking around with a lively eye.

“It’s coming on to the winter solstice. He’ll be home for the holidays. Fair warning, he’s in Slytherin House. Not sure how that happened, I’d pegged him for Hufflepuff.”

Sirius laughs out loud, then does a double-take at Draco. “You’re—I thought you were making a joke, but you’re—really? You wouldn’t mind if he was a Hufflepuff?”

“I wouldn’t mind if he was a _Gryffindor_ ,” he says with a sly smile. “That’s how much I love him.”

Sirius laughs again, and it’s clear that he remembers their fights about the merits of the Houses.

“What’s his name?”

Draco hesitates, knowing beyond a doubt that Sirius will have words to say about this, likely rude ones. “Scorpius.”

Sirius bursts out laughing again, and Draco’s heart warms. “And you say you love him,” he splutters, and Draco laughs too, in spite of himself.

 

\---

Draco walks down the poorly lit corridor leading to the attic entry, confused and irritated by a conversation he’d had on the train back for the holidays. Theo had pointed something out to him, something about Potter, in predictably snide fashion. While Draco had creditably shot it down with a nicely-phrased sideways attack on Theo’s bloodline, it preys on his mind. He sneers at the memory even as he formulates his question to the only person on earth he can ask about things of this nature, climbing the rickety steps to the vast, cobwebbed expanse of the Malfoy attics. He has an inchoate feeling that Sirius will be able to help him sort this out. Or at least listen without judgment, which at the moment would almost be enough.

Draco casts a space-delimited Lumos and sits down before the covered portrait, heart racing. When he lifts the stained brocade fabric to reveal Sirius, asleep on the divan, it takes him a second to note that he’s tracing the shape of his legs, the way his calf muscle swells and tapers to his ankle. He swipes his hand across his face defeatedly and sighs, loudly enough to wake the sleeping boy in the painting.

Sirius’ lashes flutter and open, his mouth parting on a moan of protest. That, and the languid way he slowly turns himself over to sit up, his robes clinging to the musculature underneath, cause Draco to lower his gaze ashamedly. His reaction is not unlike the little display Theo witnessed, in the showers after the Slytherin/Gryffindor match, which causes another surge of queasy shame.

Draco reminds himself that this person is his cousin, another male, and not corporeal besides. Of course, the second attribute forms the reason for his visit, at least in part.

“What’s the trouble, little cousin?” Sirius says, absently rubbing his eyes and running his hands through his hair.

“It’s winter hols,” he says by way of greeting, ignoring Sirius’ question. “Just wanted to come say hullo.”

“That’s awfully thoughtful of you, mate,” Sirius drawls and stretches. “Been lonely around here.”

“Yeah, sorry. I wanted to take you to school with me, but…” Draco trails off as he can’t give the real explanation and he shouldn’t have brought up that possibility again. The first time he’d mentioned the idea, only to discard it immediately, Sirius had pestered him for months. “It’s just, I heard that shrinking portraits can damage them permanently. Plus, you don’t want to have to hang out with a bunch of Slytherins.”

“Hm, yeah, I dunno about that. It might be fun to meet all your ickle uptight friends, teach them naughty spells and such,” Sirius leers playfully. “Make you popular with all the ladies.”

“I don’t need that,” Draco says sharply. “I’m as popular as I want to be with the girls.”

“Oh, is that so?” Sirius says doubtfully, looking Draco up and down. “And how popular _do_ you want to be?”

Draco blushes fiercely, he can’t help it. He ducks his head but it’s too late.

“Oh ho! What’s this? Your porcelain Malfoy skin betrays you! What secrets are you hiding, young Master Malfoy?” Sirius snickers, cocking his head to one side, an eyebrow raised inquisitively.

Draco shrugs, feeling a tightness in his throat. It takes him a few moments to answer, moments in which Sirius goes still and quiet as if sensing the turmoil in his kinsman.

“I don’t want to be popular with them at all,” Draco says, the words edging past his throat painfully, his eyes still cast on the floor. It’s barely above a whisper but Sirius appears to hear him because he doesn’t ask him to repeat himself.

“But I bet you are, anyway,” Sirius offers, a rueful tone in his voice. “I know the feeling. It gets to be too much, sometimes.”

Draco looks up, startled. He must have misunderstood.

“How? What do you mean?”

Sirius smiles crookedly, his sublime features making the expression somehow beautiful. “It’s in the Black family genes.”

Draco sighs exasperatedly. It’s not like Draco’s anywhere near as attractive as Sirius, with his cheekbones and his dark lashes and his finely-drawn eyebrows and the way his hair falls over his forehead. Not to mention the breadth of his shoulders, so much like… he forces his mental cataloguing of Sirius’ features to stop.

“You’re always on about ‘genes.’ What does that even—is that a Muggle thing?”

“Yep,” Sirius says smugly. “Learned it from Remus. Muggle theory of lineage. It’s science,” he says, sounding reverent. “We’re cursed with beauty, in our lineage. No way around it. The birds will always flock to you. But…” He trails off and Draco stiffens against his next words.

_Why don’t you want them to?_

How will he explain that he doesn’t revel in the attention?

“It’s just Pansy, anyway. And a couple of second years.” He doesn’t mention the fifth year Ravenclaw who follows him around the stacks of the library. No third year boy in his right mind would turn down attention from a fifth year girl. The bragging rights alone make it an undismissable opportunity.

“But it’s more the … nature of the attention than the number, am I right?” Sirius is blushing faintly himself, and the sight is so mesmerizing, Draco can’t look away.

It’s not as if he has a crush on Sirius—the legends of incestuous relations plaguing both sides of his family tree have instilled an unshakable disgust at the idea of interfamilial romance—but he can’t deny that his cousin has an otherworldly beauty, and he has never seen the portrait blush before, or act anything other than supremely confident.

“What do you mean,” Draco asks numbly, aware that he’s stupidly repeating himself and making himself look dull-witted, but he can’t risk making the wrong assumption right now.

“I mean,” Sirius starts, then looks shiftily towards the door behind him as if checking that no one is about to come in. “I mean, it’s not girls you want attention from.” There’s a long pause while Sirius searches Draco’s face for confirmation, and evidently finds it, though Draco tries to hold himself as still as possible. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“So? It’s not like you can tell anyone! I could just cover you up and leave you here to rot by yourself for the rest of …” he cuts himself off before he says something truly stupid, like ‘the rest of your life.’ His cheeks are burning again and he can’t distinguish the shame of being caught out as a poof from the shame of being cruel to his only friend, the only person he’s ever been able to open up to.

“It’s not like that,” Sirius says softly. “I don’t want to tell anyone.” He’s completely somber, his hands held in front of him like a supplication. “I get it. I do. You have no idea how much I get it.” Now he wraps his arms around his torso, holding himself tight.

Draco risks a look at him. He looks tense, sober. Sincere.

“You’re—” _gay._ He can’t say it. “You like—” _boys_. No. He still can’t say the words.

“I’m bent, Draco.” He smiles, and then breaks into wild laughter. “I’m gay. _I’m gay!_ ” he shouts, and flings his arms open, turning in a circle and then collapsing on the divan. “You’re the first person I’ve told!”

“I—I am?”

“I think Moony knows. I’m pretty sure he—he knows. He does. We haven’t said anything, but… but, so yeah. You’re the first person I’ve said the words to. I mean, that I know of.”

He trails off and looks a bit wistful. Who knows who he told in his real life, after the period of sitting for this portrait was done. In reality, Draco isn’t the first person to hear about this. But it still feels like an honor. One that he doesn’t want to tarnish.

“I am too. I’m gay, too.” His eyes are closed as he says it, a sad concession to his cowardice, but when he opens them, he sees Sirius beaming at him.

“There! That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Draco shakes his head but it was, it was hard. He wants to take the words back now, they make it too concrete. As though he’s committed now.

“We can talk about it more if you like. I know you can’t probably talk about it with your … my god, what would Lucius say?” Sirius giggles helplessly, then looks over at Draco with a guilty expression. “I’m sorry, mate, I’m not making fun. Look, I know how it is, with families like ours. Really and truly.”

Draco feels sick now. He feels sick, and proud of himself, and grateful, and resentful of Sirius. He’s crossed a line. He knows, and someone else knows, and even if that someone isn’t exactly a person, they’re not exactly not a person, either.

“I don’t want to be gay,” he says at last. Sirius nods, but says, “It’s going to be alright.”

“I don’t see how.” All the energy leaves him at once. He’d come up to talk about this very thing. He’d known, known from the way Sirius talked about his friend, the werewolf. He’d come up to talk about this very thing, and he had, he’d talked about it. He should go. He did what he meant to do, and he could go now.

“I have to go, Sirius. Th—” he stops short of saying thank you. “I’ll see you soon. Hols and all.”

But he doesn’t visit him again that holiday break.

\---

“Dad! I’m home! Where are you? If you’re in your study, talking to those old dusty pictures again, I’ll…”

Scorpius bangs into the sitting room to find Draco with a full tea service, and his jaw drops. “Blimey, Dad, I didn’t expect you to put yourself out for me! It’s just winter hols.”

“I missed you,” Draco says, smiling warmly at his son, feeling as always that sense of expansion in his chest, that total contentment at seeing one’s child happy, healthy. Home. “I thought I’d do a proper tea for once.”

“I should have brought Albus, he’d go bonkers for all this—you certainly didn’t stint on the chocolate! Eclairs, chocolate croissants, petit fours…”

Draco listens distractedly as his son attempts a recitation of every variety of chocolate-dipped treat on the overloaded tea cart. In truth, it had occurred to him to invite his son’s friend to join them for tea after they got off the train. Scorpius had begun catching a ride with the Potters from the station in second year and while Draco missed picking him up, he didn’t miss the stares he still got from various quarters.

But he’d dismissed the idea as soon as it entered his head, because. Well. The portrait of Sirius was, perhaps, a consideration. He blanks his mind about it and focuses again on his son, who is pouring his own tea like a common plebe and stuffing a pastry in his mouth at the same time. Mother would be rolling in her grave, if she hadn’t insisted on being cremated.

“Tell me you’ve gotten out of the house this past semester,” Scorpius says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Manners,” Draco says mildly, and Scorpius distractedly picks up a napkin and paws at his face. “I told you I had in my letters, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes, but who knows whether you’re telling the truth or merely placating your beloved child and heir to your magnificent estate? I asked at Flourish if they’d seen you and they said no.”

“Demeter is absent-minded in the extreme. And why were you at Flourish and Blotts before coming home?”

“Big project on portrait-magic for school. Had to get some books for research. Say!” Draco doesn’t trust for one minute the look of innocence on his son’s face. Some days, he would swear it was only for the sake of legacy that the Hat had sorted Scorpius in Slytherin, but other days the child could out-manipulate old Salazar. “You just got those portraits out of storage, didn’t you?”

He knows perfectly well that Draco had. The nerve of him. Draco smiles with pride.

“Yes. Not all of them. Just a few that I wanted to chat with.” He won’t offer to let Scorpius see them. He wants his son to show his hand first. Not to mention, Scorpius doesn’t need Draco’s permission to access anything in the house. It’s all his, already.

“Well, sometime during the hols I’ll want to have a look, if you don’t mind. Mum’s little oddness about them meant that I didn’t have much interaction with portraits til I got to Hogwarts.”

The stab of pain when Scorpius mentions Astoria will never go away. In a sense, Draco treasures it because it means he can still feel her, can still feel his connection to her. He wishes, for his son’s sake and his own, that he had been able to convince her to sit for a portrait.

But even after the diagnosis, she’d refused. She had said that she wanted him to remember all of her, not just a pale shadow. Draco couldn’t blame her, as she’d had no relationship with a portrait and didn’t know how complexly rendered they could be. And he couldn’t explain how valuable Sirius had been to him without revealing things that he wasn’t able to admit. Without that explanation, he could make no dent in her objections. His inability to change her mind rests heavy on him, and that ache has no redemption.

“I see no problem with that.” Draco finds himself planning to cover the portrait of Sirius before inviting Scorpius into the study, and has to pull himself up by the short hairs, conscience-wise.

“We could do it right now, if you like. Or perhaps we should wait until you’ve made yourself completely sick and covered your face with chocolate and jam, and then you can come meet your venerable ancestors, the vanished marvels of another age. I’m sure they’ll be properly impressed by such a spectacle of the future of the lineage.”

Scorpius rolls his eyes as he takes another profiterole, entirely unmoved by his father’s passive-aggressive lecture. Draco laughs and takes a petit four, washing it down with tea and waiting until the demolishing force that is a 16 year old’s appetite wanes. They share tidbits of the past many weeks between bites and sips and comfortable silences.

“Ugh, I couldn’t stuff another bite in. Can we go now?” Scorpius hops up, light on his feet, belying the gastronomic endeavors of the past twenty minutes. Draco nods and drains his teacup, then waves his wand to banish the tea cart to the scullery.

In his study, Scorpius looks around at the pristine surface of the desk and then back up at his father with a worried look. “Dad, is everything alright?” He knows that Draco tends to tidy up when stressed out.

“It’s fine, I’ve just… I’ve finished a project and haven’t started the next. Where do you want to start?” he asks, changing the subject. A thrum of trepidation washes over him as he realizes that Sirius, in dog-form, is stirring on the divan. The other paintings are stirring as well, though, and Scorpius’ eye catches on a man in a lavishly flowing white wig. At least, Draco has always assumed it was a wig. Come to think of it, it might not be.

“Uncle Octavius,” Draco says a bit loudly. “I have someone here I’d like you to meet.”

“Who’s this?” Scorpius whispers to him, looking a little nervous.

“This is my son,” Draco continues, putting his hand on Scorpius’ arm. “The Malfoy heir and a fine scholar in his sixth year at Hogwarts, Slytherin House.”

“Yes, yes,” Uncle Octavius grunts officiously. “He’s a prime specimen of the line, if a little on the weedy side. Ah well, lad, you’ll grow into it!” He chuckles beneficently, patting his rather impressive damask-covered belly.

“Scorpius, this is your great-great-great-uncle Octavius, on the Malfoy side. He was famed for the number of innovative spells he created while at school.”

Uncle Octavius beams at them both and addresses Scorpius again. “I taught a few to your father, when he was a young pup. Visit me when he’s not about and perhaps I’ll teach them to you!”

Scorpius laughs uncomfortably, giving Draco a sideways glance that telegraphs, “ _Is this guy for real?_ ”

“Thank you but no, Uncle. Scorpius has a knack all his own for schemes and stratagems.” Draco bows and Octavius returns it, then his eyes slide closed and a gentle snoring can be heard.

“Is the age of the painting directly proportional to the length of time they can converse?” Scorpius asks brightly, and Draco nods.

“It’s also proportional to the accuracy of their memory of spells, which is to say, in poor Octavius’ case, that most of the spells he taught me were miserable failures.” He omits to mention the one that wasn’t, which he used to create some rather clever little badges in fourth year.

“What about this one? Someone’s favorite pet?” Scorpius asks, and he’s gesturing to Sirius, who is awake and bounding around the divan. The shaggy dog comes to a halt when he catches sight of the figures approaching and transforms into his human shape, shaking his hair over his shoulders and cocking his hips to the side. Scorpius gasps at the sudden change.

“Dad, is that--”

“Sirius Orion Black, at your service, youngest Master Malfoy!” Sirius bows exaggeratedly and straightens up, grinning.

“Dad!” Scorpius turns to Draco, his mouth agape. “I never knew you had this! I don’t… does Mr. Potter know?”

“I’m feeling rather left out here,” Sirius whined, coming closer to the frame and trying to catch Scorpius’ eye. “Are you Scorpius?”

“Yes, yes I am, and it’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Mr. Black,” Scorpius says, giving his dad a hard sideways glare.

“Oh, an honor, is it? Well, I can’t say anyone’s ever said that before. Have I become legendary in the halls of Hogwarts, then, or has your father been filling your head with tales of my exploits?”

“My dad hasn’t mentioned you, actually,” Scorpius says, digging his elbow to Draco’s side, “but yeah. Yeah, you’re legendary. The map. The unregistered Animagus. The pranks.”

Sirius looks more confused than flattered. “I—really? I’m legendary? Wait, how long has it been since I was at school?”

Draco and Scorpius look at each other. Draco clears his throat and says, “Erm. 43 or 44 years, I believe.

“Bollocks. It’s never been that long.” Sirius looks frankly disturbed now. “Why would anyone still be talking about me?”

Scorpius pulls his dad out of range of the portrait and whispers furiously in his ear. “Why doesn’t he know why people still talk about him? Have you … did you tell him nothing about his life?”

Draco feels his throat tightening. “It… no, we—we talked about other things. Family and… well, er, I told him about problems I was having in school—”

“I’ll say you had ‘problems’ in school! Merlin, Dad! Does he even know about the war, about Mr. Potter? Does he know about his _godson_?”

“He doesn’t—know about the war, much. No, he doesn’t know about Mr. Potter.”

Scorpius backs away and gives Draco a look of pure, undistilled disappointment. Draco feels his heart sink. “I was going to tell him. I haven’t had much time with him yet.”

Scorpius ignores him and walks back over to the portrait. “Very sorry to be rude, Mr. Black. You are venerated at your alma mater for a variety of reasons which I’m sure my dad will be happy to inform you of.”

“I look forward to that very much,” Sirius says cheekily, but there’s an undercurrent of unease in his posture. “In the meantime,” he drawls and flops back down onto the divan in a sprawl, “tell me about our dear old Hoggy Hogwarts! Is McGonagall still teaching?”

“She’s headmistress, now. Still spry in her old age, it must be the cat in her.”

“Good for the old girl!” Sirius says, and then a beat passes as he straightens up and his eyes widen. “Oh, that means...Dumbledore’s…  he’s passed, then.” He plucks at the hem of his shirt, his gaze lowered. “I guess a lot of people will have died. I’m dead too, aren’t I?”

Scorpius blanches and looks at Draco, who strides forward to rescue his son.

“Yes. You died at the end of my fifth year at Hogwarts. Do you remember when you were finally able to transition to Padfoot in your portrait?”

“Yeah. I figured that was the reason but I didn’t want to ask. I guess I didn’t want to know. Can you… can you tell me how?”

Draco realizes for the first time that he doesn’t know exactly how Sirius died, just when and at whose hands. Bellatrix had loved to crow about murdering her cousin; it had turned his stomach to think about someone taking so much joy from killing a family member.

“You were in the Department of Mysteries, and… Bellatrix killed you.”

“Why? How?” Sirius looks pathetically bewildered.

“I’m sorry, Sirius. It must have been a curse of some kind, but I don’t know which one.”

SIrius is more agitated than Draco has ever seen him. He feels nauseated; he should never have gotten this portrait out of storage. He should never have visited him in the first place. Regret threatens to suffocate him.

“How did I end up there? What was I doing?”

“You were a hero, Sirius, you were trying to save Harry,” Scorpius burst in.

“Harry? Harry who? Wait—wasn’t that the name of the boy you—”

Draco cuts him off. “Yes. You… you actually knew him, as an adult.”

“I did?”

There was a long pause. Draco steels himself to tell Sirius who Harry was, to tell him that his friend had had a son, that Sirius was his godfather. He dreads the resulting explanations but there’s no denying that it's time.

But Scorpius breaks in.

“He’s Albus’ dad, that’s my best mate at school. Albus Potter.”

Sirius’ face lit up. “Potter? James has a son? That’s… that’s wonderful!” he says roughly, looking like he might cry.  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he then asks Draco, and there it is, the knowledge of betrayal on his face. Why hadn’t Draco told him?

“It… it was complicated, Sirius. I was… I didn’t know… there’s a lot I didn’t tell you, as it turns out, but I didn’t know how to.” Draco wills Sirius to understand, knowing it’s expecting far too much from either a sixteen year old or a magical portrait, never mind both.

“It’s pretty simple, mate! You heard me talking about James and Remus and Peter, all the time I was on about them, my friends...my pack! My true friends, my true family! How could you…” Sirius’ face is red and he’s breathing hard, his fists clenched.

Draco turns to Scorpius, his hand on Scorpius’ arm and whispers, “It would be better if you weren’t here for this.”

“Okay,” Scorpius whispers back, looking stricken. He leaves quietly, looking back over his shoulder once before closing the door.

“Sirius, I…” Draco starts, and then can’t continue. He just can’t. Sirius just glares at him.

“My best mate has a son and I didn’t know that. You went to school with him. You were in _love_ with him. You knew… you _had_ to have known you should have told me! Were you ever my friend? Or were you just using me as an agony aunt and—and for fucking help with your homework!” He pauses, chest heaving.

Draco has no answer. Any piece of information he gives now will cascade into an avalanche of horrible revelations.

“Sirius,” he manages, past the tightness in his throat, “the last thing I wanted was to hurt you. That’s… that’s why…” He was going to finish with “that’s why I didn’t tell you,” but it suddenly strikes him that’s not why.

He didn’t tell Sirius about the wars and the Death Eaters and the prophecy and the Potters to spare Sirius, but to spare himself. To spare himself of the awkwardness. To spare himself the pain of losing a friend. To spare himself an honest reflection on his actions. “I’m sorry,” he concludes, and walks out of the study, shoulders hunched.

\---

“Can you even get drunk in a portrait?” Draco snickers, the bottle wobbling in his hand. Sirius gives him a wink and raises his glass of elf-brandy.

“Apparently so,” he says, words slurring just a bit. “Every so often I remember the stash of drink in the sideboard, and it’s always the same shite my parents served… my kingdom for some Butterbeer.” In spite of declaring the brandy shite, he takes another swig.

Sirius is on the floor, leaning against the seat of the divan with his knees up and his forearms propped on them, hands dangling. He looks effortlessly graceful and handsome, like Draco wishes he looked, and knows he doesn’t. This past summer and fall have turned him into a pale shadow of his former self. He used to be moderately attractive, but now even Pansy won’t look at him.

“You ever kiss Remus?”

Sirius smiles and closes his eyes, head tipped back. “Not yet. But this one time while we were studying… well, _he_ was studying… I was just sitting next to him so I could secretly smell him and also ‘cause he wouldn’t leave me alone about swotting, the little bookworm. He was leaning over this book, and I leaned in to see what he was reading, and instead of pushing me off, which,” he sighed, “is what he usually does, instead of that…”

Sirius’ eyes open again and he lifts his head to look at Draco.

“He looked over and leaned in. Like, he leaned in, towards me, and his lips… sweet Merlin... “

A slow smile spreads across his face and Draco is breathless, even though he knows the story doesn’t end with a kiss. He’s never heard a boy talk about another boy like this, and his heart is racing.

“His lips were so close, and they were parted, and I could smell chocolate on his breath, the chocolate I’d given him as a Yule present, and I almost …” his head thunks back on the divan seat. “I almost kissed him. I should have. I should have done. But Peter was in the room, and… I didn’t. But I could have. I think he would have let me.”

Draco swallows hard. “I did kiss a boy,” he says, feeling reckless. Sirius snaps to attention, all signs of tipsiness disappearing.

“You did? You _kissed a boy_ and you didn’t tell me about it?”

Draco blushes and shakes his head. “It was this last term, was I supposed to write you a letter?”

“I do like letters,” Sirius pouts. “Alright, well—tell me now! Let’s hear it!”

“It was at Hogsmeade, about a month or so ago. He… he’s older than me, was my Quidditch captain and…” Draco falters, because while the kiss was good, and the handjob that followed, Flint had freaked out on him afterwards. But he’ll just leave that part out. “We had a couple drinks and he put his h-hand on my thigh under the table and took me out to the alleyway behind the pub and then we were kissing.”

“Was he any good?”

Draco takes a big slug of his drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, it was rather sloppy, and his lips were chapped, but… yeah, it was good. Mostly ‘cause it was a bloke, I think.”

Sirius’ eyebrows waggle up and down and he appears really pleased. Draco feels proud of himself, which he definitely wasn’t expecting. It’s an interesting sensation. He decides to really impress Sirius.

“Then he put his hand on my dick and rubbed me through my trousers,” Draco says, closing his eyes because he’s feeling a bit dizzy and warm and self-conscious. “It felt good, so I put my hand on his dick and we got each other off.”

“Woah,” Sirius says, looking gobsmacked. “That’s… incredible. I have to hand it to you, Draco. I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the bollocks. Good on you, mate!”

Draco smiles wryly, because honestly he wouldn’t have thought he’d have had the bollocks either. He’s glad he didn’t tell Sirius about the way Flint reacted afterward, he wouldn’t have been able to focus on this glow of self-satisfaction. It was nice to have something to feel good about after the nightmare of this year.

He’s not sure why he then follows up this triumphal moment with a depressing truth.

“Wish it hadn’t been Flint, though.”

“Don’t you like him?” Sirius asks, looking puzzled.

“No, I like him fine,” Draco lies.

“Oh, but you like someone else more.” Sirius’ face wears a knowing smirk.

Draco closes his eyes again, leans his head against the wall. “Yeah.”

“Alright then, you stingy bastard, tell me who! You already know all about my tender feelings for dear Remus,” he says with exaggerated flippancy. This is one of the things that makes it easier for Draco to open up to Sirius than anyone else—he doesn’t seem to take anything very seriously. Ironic, given his name.

“He’s in my class at school. Not in my house. He’s… he’s built a bit like you, actually.” He blushes as he confesses this, hopes Sirius doesn’t take it the wrong way. “Broad shoulders, muscular but a bit short, shorter than you. Messy hair that I—I want to run my hands through,” he trails off, feeling his dick swelling in his pants and crossing his arms over his lap to hide it. A hot flush of arousal sweeps through him; he can’t believe he’s letting himself talk this way.

“What about his face? Handsome?” Sirius asks, leaning forward, transfixed.

Draco thinks about Harry’s face, lets himself bring it to his mind’s eye without feeling guilty about it. Usually he pushes these thoughts away when they come up, as they often do. He has to Occlude his mind against them sometimes, they get so insistent. Especially when he’s here at home and the Dark Lord… But he’s not going to think about that right now. _He’s_ gone at the moment, on some unspeakable ‘mission’ and Draco is as safe as he ever is these days, and he’s talking with his friend and he’s just going to focus on something good for once.

“Yeah,” he finally answers. “No. Not just handsome. He’s beautiful. He’s the most… the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh mate, you’re so fucked!” Sirius laughs. “I remember when I first thought Remus was the most beautiful person I’d ever met. That was the day I decided to become an Animagus, to help him with his transitions.”

“That’s the kind of thing Harry would do,” Draco blurts. He realizes this is the first time he’s even said the name out loud to Sirius and the familiar slimy sensation of shame settles on him. He’s concealed so much from his friend. Sirius doesn’t even know who Harry is.

“Are you friends with him?” Sirius asks.

Draco almost laughs but thinks he might cry instead, so he just takes a deep breath. “No. Not at all. He… he beats me at Quidditch and his friends hate me and he…” The total impossibility of explaining to Sirius how star-crossed they are, how utterly and completely doomed they are to be the bane of each other’s existence, hits him with full force.

“How do you think he feels about you?” Sirius asks.

“Um, pretty sure he hates me. He only ever pays attention to me when I’m being an arsehole.”

“Look, I’m just going to tell you this and it might be all codswallop and shite but… I thought Remus hated me at first. For the first couple years at school. He was so uptight and he just frowned at me all the time and made smart remarks and like, veiled insults and… but it was all just a front. He was hiding who he was and it was too hard and the pressure made him an arsehole. But once he came clean and told us he was a werewolf, things were different.”

Draco nods, deciding to just let this one go. Things between him and Harry are nothing like what Sirius and Remus experienced. They were housemates, roommates, and friends.

He and Harry aren’t in the same house, much less rooming together. They’re on different teams, literally and figuratively. They’re on opposite sides of a war. They’re enemies. Actually, Harry probably doesn’t even think of him as an enemy, just an annoyance.

He and Harry are nothing.

“Yeah, but… I’m gay and...he’s got a girlfriend.” Draco was fairly sure that the Weasley girl was Harry’s girlfriend and even if she wasn’t, he’d gone to the Yule ball with Padma Patil. “It’s no big deal, I just think he’s fit.”

“Bloody hell, I don’t think so! ‘He’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever met!’ Mate, you don’t say that about someone you only think is fit. Do you think about him when you, you know—” Sirius breaks off to make an obscene gesture.

Draco coughs and takes another swig of booze. “Mm-hm,” he says, noncommittally, hoping Sirius doesn’t call him on it.

“Do you dream about him? Wake up sticky and think about the dream all day?”

Draco splutters and chokes on his mouthful of drink.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Sirius smirks.

“I’ve got to go,” Draco says, putting the bottle behind a stack of old rusted-out cauldrons and levering himself up unsteadily from the rough wooden floor. “I’ll try to come back before…” he stops himself before he says ‘before the Dark Lord returns from his mission.’ He really shouldn’t drink around Sirius, there are too many things he hasn’t told him, and he can’t start now because he needs him. He needs this one bright spot. This one true friend. “Before too long,” he finishes lamely.

Once back in his room, Draco bolts the door and gets in his bed, pulling the curtains tight before casting a soft Lumos. His head is spinning and he’s stopped drinking just in time to feel warm and languid but not nauseated. He’s pretty wasted, nevertheless. He would never have taken the chance of drinking if the Dark Lord were in the manor, but he’s glad he did, just this one time. Talking openly about his attraction to Harry was something he’d never even considered, for obvious reasons. He’d had no idea how it would feel. Liberating. Exhilarating. Terrifying.

 _Do you dream about him?_ Draco lets his mind drift back to his last dream about Potter.

 _They’re in Potions class, and Harry is inexplicably mastering the potion, which is both infuriating and fascinating. They’re the only students in the room, somehow, and Draco finds himself next to Potter, watching as his deft, strong hands chop verbena into fine bits and sprinkle them into his cauldron. He looks over as he dusts his hands off, then begins to stir the potion, keeping his eyes fixed on Draco’s. His pulse beats hard and he can’t catch his breath, so he breaks their mutual gaze to see that the potion is sending up corkscrew plumes of steam, a shimmering mother-of-pearl sheen on its surface. “What do you smell,” Potter asks in a low voice, leaning in towards him._ You, _Draco thinks._

_The scene fades and reforms, and he and Potter are in a stand-off. He’s said something crass and Potter is staring at him, looking him up and down, and suddenly there’s heat in his eyes, but better than that, there’s understanding. As if he’s finally, finally sussed that most of Draco’s posturing is merely to hide this thing between them, this burning, impossible tension. He takes a step towards Draco and Draco swallows hard but stands his ground, feeling the warmth of Potter’s body as it comes right up next to him, hard and sinewy but melting when they collide._

_Then Harry is in the showers, facing away from Draco. Clouds of steam billow in between them, partially obscuring his body from Draco’s sight. He drifts towards him, feeling the wet heat dampening his clothes, and then he isn’t wearing clothes. Harry’s arms are raised, his hands massaging lather through his thick, wild hair, muscles in his back flexing. Draco’s gaze is drawn down to his arse, so rounded and firm and well-formed, glistening under the spray. Draco's cock juts out in front of him, pointing to the object of its intentions, and he finds himself wrapped around Harry’s body, hands groping the sleek planes and curves that prey on his mind, day in and day out. His mouth latches onto the skin behind Harry’s ear and the groan this elicits causes Draco to spill over his fist, in the waking world._

Draco shakes himself free from the vivid dream-images of his recollection, wiping his hand disgustedly. If his parents knew… if the Dark Lord… he gathers all his dreams and stray moments of longing, of admiration, and Occludes them in a deep, deep part of his mind, where even he would have a hard time finding them again.

\---

The conversation with Sirius is not going well. Draco had thought there would be no harm in waiting a few days to gather himself and plan out how he wanted to tell Sirius all the things he’d withheld over the years: the death of the Potters, Sirius’ imprisonment, Harry’s identity. The fact that he’d used Sirius to help him accomplish the worst thing he’d ever done. It turns out that when a portrait is uncovered, it has a much clearer sense of the passage of time, and Sirius apparently is well aware that Draco has avoided his own study for nearly a week. It would have been more humane to cover him.

He isn’t talking to Draco now. He’s been in his dog form and pointedly ignoring him for fifteen minutes. Any time Draco tries to talk, he barks incessantly until Draco stops. It’s infuriating. And frustrating. And immensely disheartening.

There’s a hesitant knock on the door, or at least Draco thinks there is, he can’t quite hear over the barking.

“Scorpius?” he calls, and Sirius starts howling a pathetic ‘awoooo’ sound.

“Sirius, I’m trying to apologi—” he starts, but the howling just gets louder.

The knocking also gets louder and Draco goes to open the door. “Yes?” he says defeatedly. “Can this wait?”

“Well, no,” Scorpius says, and frowns. “What’s going on?” He looks over to the painting, where Sirius’ howls have subsided.

Draco stalks over to the painting and whispers, “Are you going to turn human again and talk to me or should I cover you up?” The dog turns its back on him and settles in front of the fire, so Draco covers the portrait with a long sigh. “What is it?” he asks his son.

“Were you trying to talk to him? I heard a racket and didn’t know what was happening. He seems pretty pissed off. Can’t say I blame him, really.”

“Yes, I was trying. He’s upset. As you say, it’s understandable. Is that why you came to my study? I thought you were finishing that essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“No, actually, I got an invite to go to the Potters and I wanted to see if you could take me there. But Dad, you really need to talk to Mr. Potter about this portrait.”

Draco ignores him. “Why can’t you take the Floo?”

“Theirs is acting all wonky. I guess their Uncle Ron almost lost some toes the other day. They’ve got it shut until Chimnastics can come see to it.”

“So you want me to side-along you?” He tries to disguise how very little he wants to go anywhere near the Potters’ residence at this moment in time, and doubts he succeeds.

“Yeah, if it’s not too much trouble. It’ll only take a minute,” Scorpius says brightly. Too brightly. He’s been in a bit of a funk this holiday season, which is to be expected as it’s only their second without Astoria. Which makes this sudden change of mood suspect. Nevertheless, Draco’s main weakness these days is keeping Scorpius happy.

“Alright, just let me get my cloak on. I seem to recall their Apparition point is out of doors.” So plebian; a decent neighborhood should have an enclosed point so people don’t just appear out of thin air, Draco thinks irritably.

He sweeps on his cloak, a fine dark grey merino, and walks with Scorpius to their own Apparition point, a circular arcade off the foyer. “How late will you be staying? Overnight?”

“Yeah, I shrank some spare clothes, they’re in my pocket.”

Draco nods and says, “Hold on to my arm,” totally unnecessarily as Scorpius is already reaching for it. He pulls him in closer and wraps his arm around Scorpius’ shoulder, marvelling at how tall his son already is. He won’t ever be as tall as Draco, most likely, but he’s well surpassed his mother’s height.

He focuses on their destination and Apparates them both to the fenced yard down the lane from the Potters’ bucolic residence. Scorpius stumbles slightly and Draco steadies him. “Sorry for the rough landing, I think it’s been years since I’ve been here,” he apologizes.

“Not since I stopped being scared of the Floo,” Scorpius confirms. “You should come in and say hullo,” he says as he turns away and starts walking down the lane to the sprawling ancient farmhouse where the Potters have lived since James was born.

“I should get back to the manor, try to talk to Sirius again.”

“Don’t you think maybe those explanations might be better coming from Mr. Potter? I mean,” Scorpius looks down at the ground, his hands fidgeting with his cloak. “It’s just, he seems really angry with you over keeping Harry a secret and … I don’t know what exactly you told him about Mr. Potter but it obviously wasn’t anything to do with the war, or his parents… I guess I’m just saying that he clearly needs to meet Mr. Potter at some point and maybe it would be easier for him to explain it all to Sirius.” He looks back up, his head tilted uncertainly.

“I don’t know about that,” Draco equivocates, though there’s a level on which the idea appeals. A level consisting entirely of cowardice, his conscience reminds him.

“At least come in for a cup of tea,” he pleads. “It’s been an age since you even saw their place and they’ve made some, um, really cool additions!” Scorpius looks so eager and sincere, and Draco knows he is worried for his father, worried he’s becoming a recluse.

He nods stiffly and says, “Lead on.”

As they get closer to the cottage (rather more ample a structure than the word typically implies), Draco feels a thrumming nervousness in his limbs, a faint buzzing sensation he strives to ignore. He doesn’t even have to mention the portrait if he doesn’t want to; moreover, the chances that Potter will even invite him in are almost nil, despite what Scorpius seems to believe. And they fall to absolutely zilch if that harpy of a wife answers the door.

While Draco quietly dissociates, Scorpius has rung the doorbell and footsteps approach. He feels a sudden unquenchable desire to flee, and then the door opens, revealing Saint Potter, his tousled hair as unkempt and plentiful as ever, the bastard. The close-fitting, finely knit jumper he’s wearing shows off the breadth of his shoulders and his bright eyes are round with surprise behind his glasses.

“Draco! What a lovely surprise! I have to say—”

“Your Floo is broken, I side-alonged my son,” Draco says, hating how defensive and stiff he sounds.

“Is it? I wasn’t aware,” Harry says, fixing Scorpius with a look. “Did Albus tell you that?” Scorpius nods and shifts guiltily away from Draco towards Harry, who lets him slither into the house without a backwards look at his outraged father, stuck on the stoop of his erstwhile rival with his hands empty and his mind blank.

“Would you like to come in? I’ve got a kettle on,” Harry says, a wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and Draco knows that he should go, he should turn and go, but some tiny part of him rebels and forces him to say, “Alright.”

 _It’s probably the magic of that smile, which even at half-wattage is more than most mortals can withstand,_ he thinks to himself. _More fool me._

He follows Harry to the kitchen, which is enormous and retrofitted with all the most modern Muggle appliances, a huge Wolf range filling what used to be a gigantic hearth. Harry gestures around modestly. “Never got the hang of cooking with magic,” he explains as he gets the kettle off the hob and fills a pot with steaming water.

“Where are the boys?” Draco asks, for lack of anything else to talk about. He fills his days with research into arcane astronomical lore but tends to get blank stares when he brings up his pet theories in conversation. Which leaves little fodder for small talk.

“They’re upstairs, I imagine, concocting further additions to our planetarium.”

“Your _what_?” Draco says, grateful that Potter hasn’t poured any tea out yet, because he almost certainly would have done a spit-take.

“We have a telescope that we’ve charmed to project onto the vaulted ceiling of Albus’ bedroom. They’ve been practicing charming the constellations to move and interact with each other, which I’ve tried to tell them is not the point of astronomy, but I find they’re not inclined to listen when they can make Castor and Pollux give each other wedgies.” Potter laughs and Draco can’t help but join in, feeling like he’s landed on another planet.

“I’ve been doing some research into Wizarding contributions to astronomy, actually,” Draco says, as offhandedly as he can.

“I know, I’ve read your treatise in the _Astronomical Wizardry Review_ ,” Potter says, pouring out the tea into two sturdy mugs.

Draco is silent as he pushes one of them over to him, then manages to say, “I hadn’t pegged you as an…”

“An intellectual?” Potter asks, with another wry twist of his lovely mouth. Draco hastens to look away from it. “I’m not, but I do enjoy dabbling in this and that. I gather you know I’m no longer with the Aurors.”

“I had heard that, yes.”

Potter now is reaching into a large crockery pot for biscuits and heaping them on a plate.

“These are for the boys, but you’re welcome to have one.” He puts one on a saucer and Draco pulls it towards him, because they smell heavenly.

“I also didn’t peg you as a baker,” he says, bringing the biscuit to his mouth for a nibble.

“I’m not, Gin made these. We long ago worked out a deal where I cook and she bakes and never the twain shall meet,” he chuckles.

The sudden reminder of Potter’s wife causes a sinking sensation in Draco’s gut and he realizes how dangerously under Potter’s spell he’s fallen. He’s always, always known how drawn he is to power, much to his detriment. Potter floats the biscuit-laden tray out the door and presumably up the stairs to where Albus and Scorpius are with a wandless, wordless wave of his hand and Draco’s mouth goes dry.

“So, what have you been up to?” Potter inquires as his large hands wrap around a mug and bring it to his lips. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in at least a year. Keeping busy?”

Draco nods noncommittally. “Research and writing, as I mentioned. Some potions development on the side. I had a thought about joining Granger’s Committee on Education Reform but it seemed like too many meetings.”

Potter lets out a loud guffaw at that, and that almost makes Draco feel like the lie was worth it. That is to say, he had entertained an extremely fleeting notion of joining the committee, but his motives were not pure and he discarded the idea instantly.

“I’ll say! I resigned after a week. Let me tell you, she was not best pleased with me.” He bites into a biscuit and chews thoughtfully. “Oh, these are good,” he says. “You like them?”

“I do,” Draco says, and the whole atmosphere is so absurdly, seductively welcoming that he feels himself relax in spite of himself. “I’ve always liked chocolate.”

“Welcome to the Chocolate Box,” Potter says with a wave of his arm, and smiles.

Draco boggles. “The what?” He asks for the second time in ten minutes.

“That’s what this style of farmhouse is called,” he says. “Chocolate box.”

“Of course,” Draco says. “Yes, I had forgotten.”

They chew their biscuits and sip their tea for a moment in silence, and then Draco finds himself asking, “Is your wife home?”

“No,” Potter says with an odd look at him. “She’s with Luna.”

“Ah,” Draco says, as if that explains anything. “Girls’ night out.”

Harry looks as if he’s about to say something when Albus bursts into the room gasping, “MILK!” and looking like he’s about to fall over.

“Help yourself,” Potter says, barely seeming to notice his son’s state. “There’s a fresh bottle in the fridge.”

Albus gluts himself on the milk straight from the bottle, then registers Draco sitting at the table and performs a quick sanitation charm on the top of the bottle before pouring some into two large glasses.

“Hullo, Mr. Malfoy. Thanks for bringing Scorpius over.” He looks vaguely guilty and Draco decides to test his theory.

“Yes, well, the Floo was broken, or so Scorpius seemed to think.”

“It was! Is! I mean, I thought it was!” He cuts a look over to his father, who is smirking over his teacup. “Anyway, you could have sent some milk up with those biscuits! I spent fifteen minutes trying to make my Patronus come down to ask for some, but ever since Francesca jilted me at Hogsmeade, I can’t think of a happy enough memory,” Albus said in one long breath. He manages to look gloomy, exhausted, wired and excited all at once.

“The Floo has been fixed for a month, Albus,” Potter says softly. “Why don’t you go back upstairs with the milk, I’m sure Scorpius will want some.”

Draco takes a bit of his biscuit, trying not to feel any of the million emotions that are coursing through him, instead scouring his mind for a way to broach the topic of Sirius and his portrait. Potter opens his mouth to say something again and Draco finds himself saying, absurdly, “Speaking of astronomy, Sirius is actually not a star, it’s a star system.”

Potter just blinks at his non-sequitur.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, or, well, apologize,” Draco continues, feeling like he’s on the outside of himself, just a passenger along for the ride of whatever his mouth is saying. “In third year, I didn’t know that Sirius Black was your godfather.”

Potter continues to blink at him. “I...okay,” he says. “I forgive you?”

“It’s just… I wouldn’t have… Family is important, and I wouldn’t have teased you—well, I would have, that’s not true, but I would have felt much worse about it.”

“But he was your family, too,” Harry says mildly, as if totally unaffected by this. “Your mother’s cousin.”

“Yes, I know,” Draco says testily. “He was blasted off our family tree, though. I’m not saying I agree with that, but… look, I… didn’t know him the way you did,” and he nearly loses his ability to speak now, but he keeps going on. “But he chose to leave my family and be a part of yours, and I shouldn’t have teased you about it. About him. I’m sorry.” It’s a tenth, a twentieth, the smallest fraction of the apology he needs to make, but it’s a start.

Harry looks completely gobsmacked, and Draco is petrified of what might come out of his mouth next, so he keeps talking. “I was wondering if...if you knew how he...passed on. I mean, I know my Aunt...” His throat seizes up and he just stares at the table, waiting for Potter to… do something. Say something. Ask him to leave, maybe. He should never have started talking about any of this. They’d been ably pretending that none of this mattered anymore, even though that was a patent lie; of course it mattered, it mattered to Draco, why hadn’t he known how much it mattered? He wants to sink into the floor. He wonders if he could ask to use their Floo without seeming rude.

“Thank you for the apology and yes, I do know what happened,” Harry says gently.  “Sirius fell through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. He passed directly to the other side. It’s quite likely he felt no pain. Bellatrix’s curse merely pushed him off balance and he fell backwards. Death by curtain,” Potter concludes, voice soft and almost absent. “You know I don’t blame you for any of that,” Potter continues, his voice warmer. “You do know that, right?”

Draco can’t speak; he wishes he knew a spell to unlock his throat.

“Look, do you want to go get something stronger than this?” Potter asks after a long moment, lifting his mug. “There’s a pub down the lane, it’s very quiet. They’ve got an amazing oak aged whiskey.”

Draco looks at him, shocked by the invitation. He wants to accept, but he also wants to refuse. “What about the kids?”

“I’ll get Ginny to come over.”

“Isn’t she out with Luna?”

“She’s not…” Harry bursts out laughing. “She _is_ ‘out’ with Luna, she’s… Didn’t you know she’s in a relationship with Luna? We’re divorced, Draco. I assumed you knew.”

Draco is stunned. No response occurs to him for a moment, his stomach in turmoil and pulse racing. “How on earth did you keep that out of the papers?”

“We didn’t?” Harry looks concerned. “You’ve been kind of holed up for a while, haven’t you?” Draco nods. “Since Astoria passed away,” he concludes softly.  Draco nods again, not meeting Harry’s eyes. He’s humiliated to have the extent of his isolation revealed like this, but on the other hand, he feels bolstered by the fact that he’s obviously not obsessed with the comings and goings of the Chosen One, given that he wasn’t even aware of this major cataclysm. His pulse slows a bit, though his stomach remains unruly.

“I’ll go get Gin,” Harry says, and goes through the door leading to the sitting room, where the supposedly broken Floo is. Draco hears a muffled conversation, a burst of feminine laughter, and then Harry comes back and picks up his mug of tea again, wincing when he brings it to his lips and it’s gone cold.

He waves his hand over it and steam rises from the top. Draco, instead of getting out his own wand to perform a warming spell, holds his mug up to Harry. Harry, smiling slightly, does the same wave of his hand over it and Draco can feel the heat of the spell pass over his fingers where he holds the mug, like a caress. They sip their tea and talk about the impending horror of NEWTS year for their sons while they wait for Ginny to arrive.

There’s a rush of sound from the other room and then Ginny appears, giving Harry a pat on the shoulder and giving Draco the oddest look, merry and sinister at the same time. “Hello, Malfoy,” she says, then making a shooing motion. “Off with you, then. I’ll hold down the fort, Luna’s deep in the thickets of planning for her creature conservatory anyway.”  

“We’ll just walk there, I think,” Harry says as Draco pulls on his cloak. “There’s no Apparition point or Floo nearby and it’s not far.”

“I could use the exercise,” Draco says, following Harry out the door and doing his utmost not to stare at the man’s arse in his Muggle jeans.

“It’s a lovely evening,” Harry observes, and Draco is suddenly struck by the fact that he’s never been on a solo outing with Harry. Their interactions have solely revolved around their sons and their homes, or the school, or another public place. Here they are now, on a country road with the pinks and purples and deep blues of impending night over their heads, the air bitingly cold but refreshing on their skin, the lacework branches of the trees bordering the lanes soft against the rainbowed sky.

“It is,” he replies simply, not wanting to break the spell he feels he’s under, although knowing how risky it is to let it linger. Potter might be divorced, but that’s hardly any kind of assurance that something could… He stops his thought before it goes any further.

They walk in silence the rest of the way to the pub, which really isn’t all that far. It’s a squat little structure, looking at least twice as old as Harry’s house. Inside, it’s as warm and inviting a place as Draco’s ever been, low-ceilinged enough to make him want to duck but cheerful and, most importantly, nearly deserted at this hour. Harry orders them both some of the oak-aged whiskey and a pint of local ale, and they go to sit in an alcove off the main room, where a small pot-bellied stove gives off an aromatic smell.

“So, about that broken Floo,” Draco starts, and Harry bursts out laughing.

“I assume one of our offspring put the other up to that, but why?” he asks, taking a sip of his whiskey and fixing Draco with his inquisitive green gaze.

“It might have something to do with… well, I think my son is concerned about me,” he says, looking into the depths of his own whiskey before lifting it his lips. It’s strong, sharp and full-bodied.

“Scorpius had mentioned that you weren’t getting out much,” Harry admits. “I assume Albus came up with the plot and Scorpius was left to execute it, as usual.”

“I’ll have you know they trade off hatching their schemes,” Draco says, affronted by the implication that his son is some kind of mindless follower. Harry laughs and nods, conceding the point.

“They’re a matched set,” he agrees. “I’m glad they’re friends. I don’t know too many people who can handle Albus’ moods with half as much grace as Scorpius, myself included.”

Draco smiles wanly. He has an idea where his son cultivated the ability to handle someone’s changeable moods. “I’m glad they’re friends as well. Of course, mainly because my son’s reputation can only profit by association with your family,” he says, making light of his former obsession with status. Harry chuckles and finishes his whiskey, wincing as he sets the glass down and picks up his ale.

“Scorpius mentioned that they’re doing an independent project on portrait magic,” he says and takes another sip of his whiskey, the words “liquid courage” floating through his head. He drains the glass and sets it down with a thunk beside Harry’s.

“Yes, they made me take them to Flourish and Blotts to pick up some books,” Harry says. “As usual, Albus tried to turn the visit into an opportunity to pick up the latest animated editions of every comic book he’s following, but I put a stop to that. St. Nick has to have something to bring the boy on Christmas morning.”

Draco nods, not really hearing him. “It just so happens that I’ve taken some portraits out of storage recently. We had put them away for a while, Astoria wasn’t a particular fan of my family.” He clears his throat, ignoring the sense of vertigo rising. “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this, but, you know…” he pauses.

Harry looks at him as the moment lengthens. “Yes?”

“I’ve never told you this, I know I haven’t. I have a portrait of Sirius. Your godfather. My… my mother’s cousin.”

Harry’s eyes widen and his lips part on an intake of breath. “You do?”

Draco nods, waiting for the revelation to sink in.

“A wizarding portrait?” Harry clarifies, his eyes alight with hope. “Where did you find it? How long have you had it?”

“Yes, it’s—it’s quite—he’s very personable,” Draco says. “More so than most portraits. He was a powerful wizard, so it stands to reason that his portrait would be more, er, alive. Lifelike. I’ve had it for, hm.” Draco pauses. Harry’s not upset yet. But he will be. “I found it in a remote part of the Manor’s attics during third year.”

Harry stares at him uncomprehendingly and then shakes himself. “You—sorry, I assumed you’d just found it. You’ve had it all this time?”

“I have. That is to say, I’ve known of it. Of him. I used to talk to him on school breaks and in the summer.”

“You did.” Harry’s brow is furrowed now. “What did you talk about?”

“Not—not the war,” Draco manages. “About school. And...well, friends. And things like that.”

Harry’s head is tilted slightly, a puzzled but otherwise unreadable look on his face. He takes his glasses off and polishes them as he asks his next question. “So he didn’t… you didn’t tell him about Voldemort. Or the Death Eaters. Did he know what happened to him?”

Draco shakes his head, his mouth suddenly dry. He reaches for his ale and takes a long sip.

“So, how old is he, in the portrait?”

“He’s sixteen. A family portrait, done at the Black residence. I assume my uncle Alphard got ahold of it, shortly before he was disowned. I don’t know why it was at the Manor. It must have been done during the holidays of his sixth year.”

Harry stops polishing his glasses. They dangle from his hand and he looks up, tears forming in his eyes. “He was just about to leave his family to live with mine, then.”

“Yes. We talked about his plans to do that.”

“Did you talk about me?”

Draco’s eyes fall to his lap. “If you mean, did I tell him about you, your parents, your… role in the wars—no.”

Harry is looking in the direction of the pot-bellied stove, clearly not seeing anything. His chest is heaving and Draco has the awful premonition he’s either about to start crying or break into a rage.

“This is a lot to take in, Draco,” Harry finally says, voice rough with emotion. “I can’t say I fully understand any of this. First of all, the very existence of the portrait, I can’t believe it was unknown all this time. No one in the Order knew of it, I’m fairly sure.”

Draco hears the beginning of the recriminations in Harry’s tone.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before? I mean, did you... You knew he was my godfather, you knew the role he played. I can’t believe you never told me, or anyone, about his portrait. And you never told him about me, or… any of it? The war?”

Draco shakes his head, wishing he were anywhere else.  

“You never did? Not even after you got the portraits out again?”

Draco feels pinned to his chair, frozen and flayed open. “I didn’t know how, Harry. I didn’t know how, not when I was thirteen. When I found him I knew who he was, but he didn’t know me. I hadn’t been born when he was painted and my mother had just gotten married. I spouted off about purebloods and he leapt down my throat and I never said a word about that again, I was too fascinated by him. He wrote it off to my father being a Malfoy and…” he breaks off. “But I didn’t ever say anything about Voldemort or anything like that. I couldn’t.” He takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

“He used to commiserate with me, about having a family that believed all that shit, and I pretended to agree with him, long before I ever did. Just… you had real friends, Harry, you don’t know what it was like to be surrounded by either lackeys or rivals. Greg is a friend now, but at school he… he really wasn’t. We didn’t… it’s hard to explain. Our families, our culture, it doesn’t foster openness.” He laughs bitterly, drawing his hand across his face. “By fifth year, the summer after fifth year, I was pretty close to rejecting what I’d been raised to believe, but by then it was too late to explain what was happening, my family’s role in it. I needed him too much, Harry. I needed him.”

“I needed him, too.” Harry’s tone forces Draco to look at him. “He died for me. Trying to protect me.”

Draco nods, and now the tears are coming and they’re not going to be stopped by humiliation or force of will. “I know that. I—” A sob rises up, stops him speaking for a moment. He covers his face and stifles it. “If I could go back, I would have told him about you. I would have told him everything, from the beginning. Who knows, he could have talked me out of my… I might have seen … might have been able to avoid, I don’t know, could have gone to Dumbledore for help before I got Marked, but then…” The tears spill down his face. He’s crying in a public place, in front of Harry Potter. He tries to stop.

Harry is silent, and Draco can’t tell if it’s a silence of horrified embarrassment or if he’s simply listening. At the moment, it almost doesn’t matter. He has to get this out.

“Once I got Marked, I couldn’t possibly tell him anything about the wars, about the Dark Lord. I was so ashamed. Terrified. I needed him more than ever, someone to be honest with about… I told him how I was feeling even if I couldn’t tell him why. He assumed Lucius was abusive and that was close enough to the truth. I could tell him things I’ve never been able to tell anyone else, not before or since. At school, you must know I had no one, you saw me talking to Myrtle.” He wipes his face but doesn’t look up. “At least I was able to talk to her about Voldemort, but she was no substitute for Sirius, she wasn’t insightful or funny, just a…” he trails off. “I had no one else, Harry. I didn’t even trust Severus. Sirius saved me from losing my mind.”

He pauses, then opens his mouth again, feeling the weight of all his suppressed thoughts bursting through the dam. It’s time. It’s past time.

“I can’t explain how sorry I am for what I did. For taking the Mark. I told myself I had no choice. If I wanted to help my family, I thought I had to submit to my father’s plans, to the Dark Lord’s will. But there could have been another way, perhaps, another road if only I hadn’t been such an arrogant little prick, so proud of our advantages and position. But I did take it, and I tried to carry out the task, and I couldn’t, I just kept making mistakes. Mistakes because I didn’t want to succeed. Mistakes that nearly cost people their lives, and my father lost all his power, my mother couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat… I would have done anything to save them. When I couldn’t get the job done, they told me I had to find a way to let the Death Eaters into the school.”

The black despair of that time rises up to overwhelm him. His usual control over his thoughts has slipped, he’s loosed the bonds on his strict partitions and now he’s lost in a miasma of memories, nearly all of them the cause of shame or regret. It takes him a moment to register that Harry’s leaning forward and has his hand on Draco’s knee. Hardly knowing what he’s doing, he puts his trembling hand over Potter’s, his head bowed and eyes focused on the strong brown fingers under his own.

Suddenly, Harry is kneeling before him, his other hand touching Draco’s cheek and gently urging him to lift his head. Draco lets himself be guided, but his eyes slide shut, partly in fear and shame, partly in disbelief.

“Draco,” Harry says softly, and truly, Draco has dreamed of hearing his voice in that tone, but never in this context. Never while his cheeks are still wet with tears of remorse. Never while he still has to confess the worst part.

“I asked for his help, Harry,” Draco says, and distantly notes this is the first time he’s used Potter’s given name. “I couldn’t figure it out, so I asked Sirius to help me with my task. I lied to him. I said it was for an Advanced Charms project. He helped me fix the cabinet. I made him help me betray… ” More tears cascade from under his lashes, no matter how tightly shut he clenches his eyes. They slide down to where Harry’s fingers still rest on his face.

“Draco,” Harry says again, and Draco opens his eyes. “You were just a child.” His gaze is soft and kind. Draco can’t hold it.

“So were you,” he says.

“Yes, but I had friends, like you said. I didn’t realize how alone you were. I should have done.”

Draco shakes his head. “You had far more important things on your mind,” he said. It had been years since he really realized the depth of his debt to Harry, years since he’d stopped pitying himself and his rough road, come to terms with the fact that Harry had had it far worse. “And I did have someone, I had Sirius, and I failed him. Harry, I can’t tell him how I abused his trust. I just... I _can’t._ ”

He pulls his hands away from Harry, turns from his gaze, despite the fact that he wants to stay in this moment for a long time, far too long for his own good. Harry sits back on his heels, then rises to return to his chair. Draco knows that if he risked a look at him, his face would still wear that soft expression of understanding. But he doesn’t understand anything.

He doesn’t deserve Harry’s compassion. It strikes Draco that he’s known for weeks that he ought to give Harry the portrait, and in a flash the real reason why he hasn’t done so is crystal clear. The worst, he realizes, is yet to come.

“I should have given you the portrait as soon as I realized how badly I’d fucked up with Sirius. I honestly… I had spent so many years feeling grateful to him that I didn’t notice how relieved I was that Astoria had packed him away—relieved that I wouldn’t have to explain my actions, or how much I hid from him. I didn’t notice, or didn’t care to. But once I started talking to him again, I should have… I did, I realized that I ought to give the portrait to you, that I didn’t deserve it and you did.”

Harry is shaking his head, Draco can see out of the corner of his eye. He leans forward, forearms on his sturdy thighs, to say something and Draco holds out his hand.

“Please. Don’t. I haven’t told you the worst part. At least, not where you’re concerned. It’s not just what I didn’t tell Sirius about you, but what I did tell him. About you.”

Harry leans even further forward, and Draco finds that he must look at him now, one long look before he irreparably alters their tentative friendship. Harry is lovely, his face concerned and pensive; he’s listening with his whole body, invested in what Draco has to say and not judging him.

Not yet.

Draco reminds himself that their relationship, such as it is, is predicated on their sons’ friendship, not any rapport that they share. He will still foster Scorpius’ friendship with Albus, of course he will. He’ll just have to be extremely circumspect about Potter from now on. No impromptu chats over tea or visits to the pub.

“The reason I held onto the portrait, the reason I never told you about it, wasn’t only because I had failed to be honest with Sirius. I was honest with Sirius about one thing. Well, two things.” He darts another glance at Harry, who is rapt and still. Draco spares a hysterical thought that his teenage self would have killed to have Harry’s attention like this.

“He told me about Remus, and about being gay. So I told him that...” He stops. He feels like he needs to leave the pub immediately. Homosexuality isn’t the crime it used to be in the Wizarding world, but purebloods don’t admit it. Ever. “I told him that I was gay.”

Harry makes a little humming sound, a low, sympathetic noise.

“I am. I mean,” he breaks off, to clear his throat. “I’m gay. I always have been.” A fine, clammy sweat has broken out all over him and he feels faint with nausea. “Astoria never knew. I never… never told anyone else. But… and also, I told him who I had...” He averts his eyes again, stares at the fire. “Had feelings for... For you. That’s all he knew about you. Your first name, and that I was in love with you.”

It’s done. He stands up. Momentarily he feels like he may fall down, so he steadies himself with a hand on the arm of the chair. He can sense Harry getting ready to interject with some assurance that it’s alright, no offense taken, water under the bridge and all, and he can’t stand that idea. He drains his ale and fumbles his cloak around himself. “So that’s why I’ve held onto it, I didn’t want him to tell you… but it’s nothing to worry about. I won’t—” he laughs a bit bitterly. “You’re in no danger from me. I’ll bring you the portrait in a few days’ time. Just let me tell Sirius about things first.”

Harry is standing too, moving quickly towards him, and his nerve fails.

He Apparates away.

 

\----

“Hey, Sirius?” Draco whispers, kneeling in front of the portrait. He can’t see his cousin anywhere in the picture, which is unusual. Normally he’s dozing on the divan, or curled up as Padfoot on the hearth near the fire. “Are you there?” He’s starting to panic a bit. The Easter holiday is coming to a close and he hasn’t been able to get away from the inner circle until now.

Sirius materializes from behind the divan, looking peaked. “Draco?” he asks, his voice hushed.

“Yes, it’s me,” Draco says. “What’s the matter?”

“I miss Remus,” he replies, and sinks down onto the divan bonelessly. “I don’t suppose you could get him to visit me?”

Draco racks his brain. He doesn’t know if he can trust the werewolf, even if he could find him. A shiver runs down his spine at the thought of trying to locate the pack. No way, not with Fenrir around. “I’m not… I don’t know how to reach him,” he finally says. “No one’s seen him in quite some time.” That, at least, is not a lie.

“I miss him so much, Draco. I know it’s not realistic to expect that he’d want to visit an old portrait. I didn’t think—you know, it’s funny. I never realized portraits could even have emotions.” He looks puzzled and forlorn and Draco wants to help him but he can’t even help himself. “Do you get to see Harry very often?”

“No,” Draco says, omitting that it’s not for lack of Potter trying. He’s trying to catch Draco, he knows there’s something afoot. How many times has Draco dreamed of letting himself get caught? At least then… at least then this would be over. Maybe Potter would take pity on him.

“I’ve been working on school stuff. I’m… having a hard time with an, er, independent study.”

“Yeah, mate, you look like you’ve been losing sleep. Are you eating at all? Life is about more than marks.”

Draco shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he deflects, but in small, secret place it warms him that Sirius has noticed how badly he’s doing. Even his own mother hasn’t, or she hasn’t mentioned it, but then again she has her own worries.

“How do you do it?” Draco says, out of the blue. “How do you just… You’re okay with being gay?”

Sirius stares at him, surprise and then anger flashing across his face, which quickly resolves into sorrow. “Yeah, I guess I am, but it’s not like it’s easy peasy for me. I’m not on good terms with my parents,” he says, and then emits a bitter bark of laughter. “To put it mildly. I’m,” he looks around at the door behind him, “I’m going to leave, actually. They don’t know. The Potters have offered to put me up. I can’t stand to stay here any more, all the shit my parents believe, it’s hateful and wrong and Remus… he deserves better. You deserve better. I know Lucius Malfoy is mixed up in some really bad stuff, I tried to warn Narcissa but…”

Sirius is pacing the room now and Draco wants him to stop ranting but at the same time he wants him to keep going. It is all shit. It’s all horrible, horrible bullshit and he knows it, but he’s trapped. There’s nothing he can do to extricate himself. And he’s failing. He can’t fix the cabinet and he’s going to fail in his mission and his family is going to die. What does it matter if he’s gay? He’s going to lose his family. He’s going to lose his life.

“So you’re going to live with the Potters?” he asks. A terrible idea has just occurred to him and he’s trying to resist it, distract himself by continuing the conversation. “They’re purebloods too, are you sure they’d be alright with you being gay?”

Sirius doesn’t hear the involuntary edge in Draco’s voice. “Yeah, they are,” he replies, nodding vigorously, as if trying to convince himself with his own performative certainty. “They have to be, James said he didn’t have a problem with it. Kids learn it from their families. Like you, your parents told you it was wrong.”

“They didn’t say it was wrong. It doesn’t matter if it’s wrong. It’s just not _done_. It’s not what purebloods do, it’s not what people of our ‘rank’ do,” he spits bitterly. “It’s shameful and freakish and low, and if they knew—” He starts to hyperventilate. They may be wrong, and they may be snobbish and they may be hidebound by prejudice, but they are his family and he would die to protect them. Will die, actually. “If they knew, they’d be so disappointed.”

“They’d disown you,” Sirius says forcefully.

“No! They wouldn’t!” He shouts in return. “My parents would never do that!” His terrible idea doesn’t seem so terrible anymore. Sirius doesn’t understand his family. He doesn’t understand what it’s like for Draco. Maybe Sirius’ parents didn’t love him, but Draco’s parents love him and he will die for them if he has to. He will. And he will do whatever it takes to protect them.

Draco forces himself to calm down. He has to lay the proper groundwork for the request. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Harry wouldn’t ever want me.”

“No, I’m sorry I said that,” Sirius says. “I’m an arsehole sometimes. Maybe they wouldn’t disown you, I don’t know. What I do know is that even if Harry isn’t interested, there will be someone else who is. And you deserve happiness, Draco.”

Draco stifles a derisive laugh. If there’s anyone who deserves happiness less, he’s not sure who it is. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for this perfect boyfriend that I deserve,” he manages to joke. “At the moment, though, I’d settle for not getting a T on my independent study project.”

“What is it?” Sirius asks, and Draco’s heart jolts with hope.

“Nothing, it’s just this stupid cabinet. It’s linked to a twin cabinet and if you put something in one, it should appear in the other. But it’s broken. I can’t get it to work, and if I don’t—” _my family dies_ “I won’t pass the class. It’s been keeping me up at night. I feel like I’m so close, but every time I test it, it’s bollocksed up.”

“Tell me what you’ve tried so far,” Sirius says, and Draco’s heart soars. Sirius is a genius. Sirius is his friend. Sirius wouldn’t want him to die. Sirius will help him. He silences the part of him that knows Sirius would be furious if he knew his help would aid the Dark Lord’s plans, and tells Sirius what he needs to know. A fierce, sick hope rises in him. He might get through this, after all.

Now if he could just get Harry off his back. And out of his mind.

 

\----

Draco opens his eyes, a headache throbbing behind his temples. His dreams had visited all the places he least wanted to go, particularly in light of his revelation to Harry the previous night. Flashes of his teenage fantasies of fumbling with a dark-haired boy, interspersed with memories of Occluding all his thoughts of that boy. Memories of spells he’d concocted to change his desires, spells that didn’t work. Memories of long nights of research, looking for some kind of relief from his body’s indifference to his wife. Memories of Astoria’s resigned expressions, her patient tenderness with him. And more fantasies, these the guiltiest of all, arising after each encounter with Harry, at the Ministry, at the Platform, Quidditch games, and kid handoffs after sleepovers.

Shame washes over him and he pulls the covers over his head, blocking out the morning light. The scene at the pub comes rushing back to him. He briefly entertains a moment of pride that he’d apologized, but that final scene intrudes and he internally flinches at the spectacle he must have made. Disgust fills him at how he had just fled, as if from the scene of a crime.

Defensively, he reminds himself that it isn’t as though he’d confessed to still having feelings for Harry. He had been very careful to phrase it in the past tense.

But telling him that he’d been ‘in love with him’ at school, what an overstatement. Draco nearly laughs—nearly—at his own tendency towards the dramatic. “Love.” What does he know about that kind of love, anyway? Bugger all.

Sure, he’d been attracted to Potter. In spite of himself and in spite of his commitment to his family, his bloodline, his heritage.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. He’s fulfilled that commitment, now. It could be time to explore his repressed urges. But he pushes the thought away. It might or might not be the time, and things have changed in the Wizarding world, even a recluse such as he’s been can see that, but what difference does that make in the long run? The only person who had ever held his interest that way is not likely to return it. For so many reasons. And especially not now.

Exasperated with himself, he flips the covers off and stomps to his en suite, turning the taps to scalding and stepping under the spray with a gasp. In spite of everything, his thoughts turn again towards the fantasies from his dreams, and feeling defiant, he lets them.

First it’s just the sensation of warmth that comes from being close to another person, an imagined body, firm with muscle, pressing up against his own. Then other sensual details fill in, what it would be like to have that muscle under his hand, smoothing down a strong bicep and sinewy forearm, his lips brushing against a neck thick and fragrant with male scent, his fingers drifting down to cup a full, firm buttock.

He groans as his cock fills. He imagines a cock, foreskin just barely revealing the tip, jutting eagerly against his hip, and he strokes his own, his head falling back as he gives in to his need. Now Harry’s eyes are watching him as he pleasures himself, Harry’s cock hard and thrusting in his hand, Harry’s hips helplessly shuddering with urgency, Harry’s deep voice urging him on, praising him, begging him.

He comes with a cry, spilling over his hand in copious, thick ribbons. A sense of well-being suffuses him and he tries to hold on to it, waiting for the shame to return.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, he feels settled in himself in a way that’s unfamiliar. He knows exactly how delusional it would be to think Harry could ever return his interest in that way, it’s not that he’s lost sight of that. But somehow he feels lighter for having let himself just… have the fantasy. That’s all it was, all it ever will be. But perhaps that’s okay. Perhaps it’s alright to let himself have at least that much, as long as he knows that’s all it is.

As Draco steps out of the shower, he thinks about the paroxysm of shame he’d experienced on waking. He can hear Astoria’s voice in his mind, saying something she’s said a million times during their relatively short time together. _“I know you see it that way, Draco, but how does the other person see it?”_ She’d worked so hard to keep him grounded in the face of his assumption that most people despised him, constantly redirecting his attention away from his fears and towards reality.

He remembers Harry’s eyes, kind and soft. His hands consoling. His voice as he said, “You were just a child.” He can’t accept that, can’t accept that just because he was a teenager he bore no responsibility for his actions. But he sees that Harry … Harry doesn’t think badly of him. Harry’s been a good friend to him, for all that they’ve spent so little time together over the years. Harry has never done anything to reinforce Draco’s shame. Quite the opposite.

Draco dresses slowly, deliberately, feeling almost born anew. Harry’s been a good friend, and he needs to honor that by giving him the portrait, and he needs to do the right thing by Sirius, by telling him the truth.

Finally, he thinks he’s ready to take accountability.

He goes to the kitchen first, to make some coffee and toast, then heads to his study. Draco sits at his desk, ankles propped on the corner, and sips his black coffee while he watches Sirius sleep. Most portraits are essentially motionless in sleep, but not Sirius. He tosses and turns, whuffles and snores. He’s even been known to transform into a dog and back, all while unconscious. He talks in his sleep, too. He must have been a hell of a wizard. Draco keenly grieves the fact that he never met him in person.

His coffee finished, he sets down his cup and the slight noise wakes Sirius. The other portraits continue to faintly snore. Sirius sits up and blinks blearily, then rubs his eyes and squints over at Draco.

“Hullo,” he says softly. “Sorry about the barking.”

“That’s alright. I deserved it. So, you’re going to let me talk this time?” Draco asks. Sirius nods solemnly, his hands clasped in his lap, the picture of attentive propriety.

“I was trying to apologize, before. I have a lot of regret about hiding things from you. Not just who Harry was to you, but so much else besides. Can you listen and save your questions til the end? Because I don’t think I’ll be able to get through it, otherwise.”

Sirius nods again and pulls his legs up under him, so he’s sitting crisscross applesauce on the divan. It’s such a sixteen-year-old posture, he’s seen his own son sitting like that on their hopelessly stuffy antique furniture, and it makes him smile, fills him with fondness for this young man, this being, who helped him so much.

Draco tells him about the first war, and the Order, and the prophecy. He tells him about the Potters, and the secret keeper, and Peter’s betrayal, and Azkaban. Sirius is grave and silent, pale and trembling. Tears slide down his face, but he doesn’t interrupt. Draco tells him about his own family’s involvement, his father’s position as Voldemort’s right-hand man, about the way he escaped justice. He tells him about Harry, growing up with his aunt and uncle who mistreated him, and Sirius looks furious, his hands clenched in his lap like he wants to strangle something.

Draco tells him about his own persecution of Harry at school, at first thinking it justified—rejected and humiliated, his offer of friendship turned down in favor of a blood traitor. He tells of the legends of Harry’s adventures: the basilisk, the Tournament, the reincarnation of the Dark Lord. The derision, the rumors, the unending slings and arrows Harry had to endure. Sirius looks shellshocked. He tells of Sirius’ escape from Azkaban in dog form, and Sirius grins, transforms into Padfoot and gives a triumphant yelp. Draco lets him know that he and Harry had a relationship as godfather and godson, that they got to know each other, that Harry valued him tremendously, and Sirius beams.

He tells of the Department of Mysteries, and this time is able to explain how Sirius died. “Through a curtain?!” Sirius is unable to prevent himself yelling in disbelief. Draco nods, and Sirius laughs a bit wildly.

Then he moves on to the worst parts. Getting Marked. His father’s disgrace. The mission. The failure of his efforts and his eventual task—letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. As soon as he mentions the cabinet, Sirius blanches.

“I asked for your help in fixing the cabinet, and I lied to you. I coerced your complicity in actions that would have sickened you, if you had known. If I’d been honest.” Tears stream freely down his face, but he doesn’t wipe them away. “I regret that the most, Sirius. Of all my crimes, to me that was the most unforgivable. I can’t undo it, but if I could, I would. It dishonored your life and your spirit and your kindness to me, it was a grave betrayal.” Part of him wants to go on, to provide excuses and explanations, but he thinks he might throw up if he heard them from his own mouth.

Sirius looks at his hands in his lap, his expression unreadable. Draco won’t press him for forgiveness, or even a response right now.

“I want to meet Harry.” Sirius voice is low and shaking with some pent-up emotion. He raises his head and Draco can see that it’s rage.

“I’m done trusting Slytherins. And Malfoys. I should have known. I should have known you would do this to me, eventually. You’re just like them. You are. You’re just like _them_. And people like them, like _you_ , never change. I want to go to my—my godson. I want to see James’ son. _Take me to James’ son!_ ” He’s yelling this last part and Draco’s heart plummets, but he can hardly blame the boy. He looks a bit like Albus in one of his strops and Draco’s heart goes out to him even as he feels sick with self-blame.

“Alright then,” he says, in as calm and neutral a voice as he can muster. “I was going to give you to him, actually, so this is—”

“YOU WERE GOING TO GIVE ME TO HIM?” Now he’s screaming, and Draco is unwillingly reminded of Aunt Walburga. “I’ve never MET him, and you’re going to give me AWAY?”

“Shhhh,” Draco says. “Shhhhhh, no, nothing like that. Nothing like that. I’m not trying to get rid of you, I only thought it would be best. You were going to live with the Potters when you were painted, don’t you want to live with the Potters now?”

“No! Don’t give me away, Draco!” Sirius is crying now, storming around his little painted room, pulling at his own hair. “I can’t… this is too much. I just _can’t_!”

He transforms into Padfoot and gives a long wail, then another. Draco’s eyes close in defeat. He doesn’t know if he could have handled this better or if this was always doomed to be a disaster.

After a few long minutes of howling, Sirius subsides into faint whimpers and then appears to fall asleep. Draco gets up and goes to the kitchen for more coffee and comes back to wait. He wants to take the portrait to Harry now more than ever, but he can’t just have Sirius wake up there. A half hour passes, Draco sips his now-cold coffee, and then Sirius stirs and casts a baleful, canine look over his shoulder.

“Do you at least want to meet him?” Draco asks. Padfoot whines and snuffles, then nods. “Can I take you to his house?” He snuffles and nods again. “Do you want—do you want to live with him?” he asks, trying to be open to either response. God knows he’s broken Sirius’ trust; he doesn’t deserve affection or loyalty of any kind.

Padfoot shifts into his human form and Sirius stands there, looking limp and bereft. “I don’t know. Maybe… maybe I should just see how I feel after I see him. Does he look like James?” he asks, truculent and hopeful at once.

Draco smiles, a little bit wistful. “Everyone says so. Except he has his mother’s eyes.”

Sirius just nods. “Take me to him, I guess.”

“I will.”

\---

Draco drapes the fabric over the frame and is summoning a sheaf of brown paper when there’s a knock on his door. “Come in,” he calls out as he measures a piece and mutters a cutting spell.

“What are you doing?” Scorpius asks. “Are you okay? Oh, is that—?”

“I’m wrapping the portrait to transport to Potter’s house.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” his son says, and beams at him proudly. “Did you tell him about, you know, everything?”

Draco fastens the paper over the frame and stands up. “Yes, I did. It was difficult, and he’s not happy with me. I don’t know if he’ll want to see me again.”

Scorpius’ face softens and he puts his hand on his father’s arm. “I’m sure he will, Dad. You did the wrong thing for the right reasons. Hopefully he’ll be able to see that.” He helps Draco cut another piece and wrap it around the back. “We can take this over there tomorrow night! We’ve been invited for Christmas Eve.”

Draco’s heart stutters. There’s no way on earth he’s going to spend Christmas Eve with Potter after the words he spoke to him last night.

“No, I’d better… Sirius wants to meet him right away. I’d better take this over now and… we’ll see about Christmas Eve. You can go even if I don’t, of course.”

“Dad, he’s a portrait. He’s covered up. He won’t even know,” Scorpius says in the all-knowing tone of the teenager.

“You didn’t see him, Scorpius,” Draco says a little sharply. He’s wrung out from the long morning of reckoning, and he knows if he ends up capitulating and taking the portrait over with his son on Christmas Eve, he’ll be stuck there with no way out. “No, it has to happen now. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Instead of Flooing over, though, he Apparates and walks up the lane to the Potters’ so-called cottage, the words “chocolate box” echoing in his mind. The portrait is heavy and he doesn’t want to risk its integrity by casting a lightening charm, so he hefts it higher into his arms and is out of breath by the time he gets to Potter’s door.

He doesn’t even have to knock; they must have some kind of monitoring charm on the property. The door swings open and Harry stands there, an apron over his button-down henley, looking slightly sweaty. “Hi! Hello, Draco,” he says, obviously surprised.

“I said I would bring the portrait by,” he says stiffly. His equanimity of earlier has worn off. It had been a terrible idea to allow himself to think those thoughts about Harry, in the shower. Draco can’t help but feel exposed and he hates it.

“Yes, but I—well, thank you,” Harry says, reaching for the portrait, which is slipping down in Draco’s arms. Harry’s hands brush against Draco’s upper arms as he takes the large, paper-wrapped frame, and even through the thick wool of his cloak, it feels as if he’s been branded.

“I’ll just put this inside, do you want to come in?” he asks, stepping inside and holding the door open. Draco can’t refuse without seeming punitively rude, so he steps across the threshold for the second time in as many days. There are Christmas decorations everywhere, twinkling lights and holly and fir branches swagged over the lintels of the doors and windows. There’s a heavenly smell of something, probably their dinner, and he can hear the kids in other rooms of the house, arguing and laughing and wrestling. The house feels full of life the way his had only when Scorpius was little.

They’re in the hallway and Harry is leading him back into the kitchen and it feels wrong, it feels intrusive and also like a trap. He humiliated himself yesterday and he alienated his cousin’s portrait this morning and he wanked while thinking about that arse, that one right there in front of him… His face burns with shame and arousal. Horrified, he stops.

“You’re making dinner. I’m intruding,” he says. Harry turns around, a question in the quirk of his eyebrows.

“You’re honestly not,” he begins, but Draco interrupts.

“I’m actually… late for something,” he says. “Sirius said he wanted to meet you. I told him everything, everything I could before he stopped wanting to hear. I think the rest might be better coming from you. He’s not sure if… he might want to stay with you. You should talk it over with him, anyway.” He feels emotion welling up in his throat and he swallows it down, relying as ever on his mother’s training. “Floo-call me if you need to, but I think he’ll be happy here.”

He turns away from Harry’s disappointed expression and walks back down the hallway towards the entrance. His heart skips a beat when he hears footsteps following him.

Draco gets the door open despite the shaking of his hand and is on the flagstones outside when Harry’s hand wraps around his wrist and brings him to a halt.

“Please, Draco. Don’t go. Stay. You have—I think this is probably about last night, but there is nothing to be ashamed of, I promise.” The sincerity in his clear baritone voice is a balm and a curse. He’s so open, so transparent, he always has been.

Draco turns to face him fully, feeling like a heel but not knowing what to do or how to comport himself. “I don’t know what to say,” he says. “I don’t feel comfortable being here without Scorpius, I have no reason to…”

“So invite Scorpius! But of course you have reason to, you’re—you have every reason to be here, the same as your son. Please, come in,” Harry pleads, a half-smile on his face to soften the intensity of his pleading. Draco stands still.

“I can’t,” he says, starkly truthful for once.

Harry looks at him and takes a deep breath. Then he looks back at the house and waves his hand to make the door shut. Draco shivers, not from the cold air of the evening.

“I’ll just say this here, then. I wanted to say it last night but you left so quickly. Draco, you must know that you have nothing to be ashamed of. You only did what you thought you had to do to protect your family. I admit, I didn’t understand it at the time. I didn’t have a family at the time, but I do now. I would do—sometimes it honestly frightens me, what I would do to protect my family.”

He blows out a long breath, running one hand through his hair in a familiar gesture that takes Draco back to his school days, watching him from across the Quidditch pitch and hating him and yearning for him.

“I don’t know if you know this, but I was able to see things through Voldemort’s eyes.” Draco nods curtly, having no idea where this is going and wary of the possibilities. “I saw you, Draco. I saw how miserable and terrified you were. I saw the environment you were in, and the scope of your predicament. I saw how you couldn’t even Crucio Rowle, and I saw, that night on the Astronomy Tower, Draco— I saw how very, very little you wanted to kill Dumbledore. You were faced with an impossible task, put in an impossible position.”

The look in his eyes, the compassion, is going to kill Draco. He’s trembling at the knowledge that Harry saw him in his weakest, most desperate circumstances and can still bear to look at him, to talk to him.

“As far as being gay, well…” _Oh no,_ Draco thinks, please don’t. _Let me retain some dignity here, just a shred._ “I have my own confession to make.”

Draco takes an involuntary step back, mouth open in shock. This can’t be leading to Harry being in … he refuses to name it.

“You’re not the only one who kept things from his partner, or felt shame over it. I knew for years, for many years, that I was more drawn to men than women. I thought that because I was at least somewhat attracted to women that I didn’t need to worry about the—the other, the attractions that kept me up at night. That made me hate myself. My aunt, you know, the Muggles who raised me? They weren’t the most progressive people,” he laughs bitterly, and Draco hears a faint echo of Sirius in it. “And, well, you know, the Wizarding world has a ways to go in acceptance of people like us. But it wasn’t even that. It was… I wanted a family, and I thought I couldn’t have that if I was queer. I’m not gay, I’m bisexual, but the ratios are a little skewed. Turns out where women are concerned, it’s basically just redheads for me,” he says, laughing. Draco attempts to crack a smile, but he’s so dumbfounded, he feels as if he’s disconnected from the rest of his body.

“So, um, you know, my marriage with Ginny, it was alright, it worked out in some ways, but we were both lying to ourselves about what we really wanted. We rushed into it thinking we were perfect for each other, but we were just kids. We barely knew ourselves and Merlin, the sex…” he breaks off to laugh again. “It’s a miracle we have three kids, is all I’m saying. It was fun enough for the first few years but it turns out that constantly suppressing your deepest sexual fantasies can take a toll on your libido.”

Draco nods. He does know how that goes. He also knows he looks dour and humorless, wishes he could join in Potter’s self-revelatory hilarity, but this subject is too serious for him, and there’s more at stake for him.

“It wasn’t until Ginny told me that she had fallen in love with Luna that I was able to really grasp the magnitude of the self-deception, of how we’d cheated each other of so much over the years. I don’t mean to say I regret our kids; I don’t, obviously. They’re my whole world, and I don’t regret being close with Gin, not at all. But neither of us had what we really wanted in a partner. And I… I probably should have known long before, but I was wrapped up in, well. The war, and everything after.” He sighs and looks again at Draco. There’s a long pause, and then Harry steps towards him.

“I know you think you’re alone in this, Draco, but you aren’t.”

Draco meets his gaze for a moment and sees everything he wants to see, and he knows he’s reading too much into it, and he knows it’s the subsurface tension of everything he’s denied and occluded and forced down for so long that it’s become part of his flesh, his blood, his bone, all of that rising up within him to warp his perception.

“Thank you for telling me, Potter. Harry. Thank you for your compassion. Take good care of Sirius.” He almost adds, “for me,” but doesn’t. Harry will take care of Sirius, of course he will, but he’ll do it for the right reasons, he’ll do it because it’s the right thing to do, because that’s what he’s always done. It’s not for Draco, it’s just because that’s who he is. “Merry Christmas.”

And with that, he walks down the lane to the Apparition point, resisting the urge to vanish on the spot. Because he’s a grown up, and because Harry has been so kind. He can do the right thing, too, when the right thing is obvious.

\---

Draco wakes up early on Christmas morning, thinking about whether Scorpius will be pleased with his Christmas present. Of course, he won’t get it until he returns from Christmas Eve at the Potters, and given that Draco’s modified alarm spell hasn’t gone off, Scorpius must still be sleeping in. He has time for a leisurely breakfast and he’ll probably be able to get a good start on making their Christmas dinner before Scorpius even begins to stir.

He gets out of bed feeling lighter than he has in ages, and he struggles for a moment to name the sense of wellbeing he feels. It appears to be a mix of pride and hope, and while the hope is almost certainly tied to Potter’s momentous and unforeseen revelation of the night before, the pride is entirely due to his own actions.

It’s not his outward actions. Giving Potter the portrait was only common decency, the obvious right thing. It’s his inward sense that even though he still struggles with attraction to Harry, even though he now has reason to torture himself with fruitless anticipation and speculation and delusional fantasies of reciprocation and consummation— he’s going to be alright.

Because he’s not alone. He’s not the only one who’s stumbled through his life, unable to admit his true desires. He’s proud that he can see that, that while Harry didn’t say ‘oh, and by the way, I’ve been secretly pining for you for years as well,’ that there’s no shame in it. No shame in wanting someone. No shame in finding them worthy of desire. Not even any shame in missing it, or in denying it, if there finally comes a time when you can say, I do want this. I am this way, and nothing will change it, and it’s alright.

Harry’s finally found his way to the truth, and so has he.

He showers and shaves his meagre stubble, smooths down his hair and puts on some wool trousers and his green cashmere sweater, the one he’s worn every Christmas morning of Scorpius’ life.

There’s a knock at the door, and that can’t be right, because his Vigiliae charm hasn’t alerted him that Scorpius is awake and besides, Scorpius would never use the front door, anyway. Unless... something is wrong?

He races down the stairs to the door and flings it open, heart racing. It pounds even harder when he registers that it’s Harry at his doorstep, breath coming in puffs of steam in the freezing chill of morning.

“Is everything alright?” Draco says, a bit frantic. He marvels at the way his mind is able to take in how handsome Harry is in his Sherpa coat with the collar turned up, while he’s still panicking that something has happened to his son.

“Yes,” Harry says, smiling. “The boys are still asleep, Ginny and Luna are going to make them breakfast and they’ll all head over to the Weasleys in a while, after Scorpius comes back here. I’m headed there, too, but I wanted to come and bring you this.” He hands Draco the wrapped package that’s in his arms. An incredible smell wafts out of it.

Draco’s hospitality instincts kick in and he says, “Come in,” almost out of reflex. Harry’s smile gets even wider and he steps through, brushing against Draco on the way in.

Draco leads him into the sitting room, which is just off the foyer, and they sit and look at one another slightly awkwardly. He’s glad he already performed his full morning ablutions, or he would feel even more out of his depth.

“You want to open it?” Harry asks, gesturing to the package. Draco nods and undoes the string, revealing a lovely, round, risen cake, studded with currants and orange peel. It smells even better out of the wrapping.

“You came all this way to bring me a panettone?”

Harry looks slightly shifty. “It’s a very good panettone, fresh from the oven and … Gin makes them every year. You won’t soon forget how delicious it is.”

Draco feels a smile breaking across his face. He’s friends with Harry Potter, at last. Real friends. Hard to believe, but here it is. Baked goods on Christmas morning, what better proof could there be?

“It smells wonderful,” he admits. “Thank you. Would you like a piece?” Draco is inordinately, embarrassingly proud of the way he’s acting like this situation is normal and fine, when it’s anything but. It’s not as if they’ve never been cordial with each other; they’ve been sociable and polite for years. But this is very different. Warm. Almost comfortable.

“I would,” Harry says. “Actually, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten anything yet.”

Draco feels a bit railroaded into making him breakfast, but he finds that he doesn’t mind at all. He rises and picks up the panettone, moving to the door as he says, “Come to the kitchen. I’ll make us something.”

Harry grins at him. “Cheers, that sounds lovely,” he says and follows him out and down the hall to the large kitchen. Draco smirks when Harry gasps at his side-by-side dual fuel Aga ranges in British Racing Green.

“This is… Merlin, Draco. I didn’t know you liked to cook.”

“I didn’t, until I got the proper equipment. Don’t expect anything fancy, I was just going to make some eggs and rashers to go with the cake.”

“That sounds perfect. Anything I can do to help?”

“Make us some coffee?” he asks, and Harry nods. Draco gestures towards the cafetiere and the kettle. “Everything you need is right here,” he says, and Harry gives him a look which he can’t read.

He opens the cooling cabinet and gets the eggs and rashers, heating up some cast iron skillets on the range. He can hear Harry fiddling with the cafetiere and the domesticity of the scene strikes him like a blow to the chest.

“Thank you for bringing Sirius by,” Harry says over his shoulder. “I talked with him for a while last night.” His voice is rough with emotion. “It’s not the same as talking with the Sirius I knew, but he’s just as mercurial and charming and frustrating. It was wonderful. He’s wonderful.”

Draco smiles as he cracks the eggs into a bowl and whisks them. “He’s the best friend I ever had,” he says. The rashers pop and sizzle when he lays them in the pan.

Harry takes the coffee to the table and waits quietly while Draco finishes cooking. Once it’s served on plates and the cake is divvied up, they eat in silence for a moment, only punctuated by Harry’s soft sounds of appreciation, which unfortunately go straight to Draco’s groin. He eats his food slowly and deliberately and ignores his body’s reaction as best he can, which turns out to be not very well at all.

“I think we should share custody,” Harry says, and Draco’s heart leaps into his throat. What on earth?

“Oh, of Sirius,” he says after a beat, when the penny drops. He feels himself blushing and tries to cover it by taking a sip of coffee.

Harry looks up and a sly smile curls his lush lips. “Why, what did you think I meant?”

Draco shakes his head and laughs it off. “I was confused, sorry. I know you and Ginny are sharing custody and… well, anyway. I don’t know how it would work, but I suppose I’m open to it. If that’s what Sirius wants.”

“He said so, last night. He’s sorry he reacted so badly to your apology. But I guess I should let him tell you that. I’ve never seen a painting so alive and complex before, it’s really like talking to a living person.”

“I know,” Draco says, feeling grateful to have someone to share this with. Even if that person is problematically gorgeous and also apparently attracted to men and also sitting across from him, looking like everything he’s ever wanted and told himself he couldn’t have.

“When is a good time for me to bring up the fact that you were in love with me at Hogwarts?”

Draco chokes on his bite of cake. “Not now, apparently,” he says, coughing to clear his throat. Harry laughs.

His heart is racing and he finds it hard to meet Harry’s eyes, so he gets up to move towards the stoves. “You ate pretty quickly,” Draco points out, hoping they can move onto another topic. “Would you like some more?”

“More coffee would be nice, but I can make it.” He gets up and goes back to the kettle, and Draco watches him move around his kitchen as though he belongs there.

“I don’t think I was entirely motivated by pure concern when I spent all of sixth year stalking you,” Harry says off-handedly, as he scoops ground coffee into the cafetiere. “Perhaps I should have realized a few things from the fact that I spent more time thinking about you that year than about the girl I ended up marrying. I thought about you... a lot. Rather more than a lot.”

Draco steadies himself against the countertop and crosses his arms over his chest, trying to process what Harry’s saying. It would be easier if he could see Harry’s face, but he’s still facing away, filling the kettle with water at the sink. “I mean, I knew you were up to something, and I was obsessed with that, but I was also just generally--obsessed with you.”

Harry shuts off the tap and turns around to bring the kettle to the range next to where Draco stands, barely breathing. He fiddles with the burner and adjusts it until it’s up quite high. Draco reaches out to turn it down slightly; even in these circumstances he doesn’t want the bottom of the kettle scorched, and their fingertips brush. It’s like lighting a match.

Harry’s hand is frozen on the knob and Draco just stares at their fingers touching for a split second. Then their eyes meet and Draco starts to understand that perhaps he wasn’t just seeing what he wanted to see, but what is actually there, clear and striking in Harry’s green eyes. The air seems sucked out of the room and time suspends itself as they draw towards each other, Draco’s gaze locked on Harry’s mouth.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Harry murmurs, and closes the last fraction of distance between them.

In slow motion, their lips touch and Draco’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. Harry’s hand has grabbed his own and holds it tightly, the firmness of the grip at odds with how very softly his mouth is pressed against Draco’s. They breathe each other’s air, warm and humid, and then Harry’s tongue tentatively licks Draco’s lower lip and heat rips through him like a wildfire.

His mouth opens and Harry surges forward, sliding his tongue in and stroking Draco’s—tentatively at first, but at the contact, something within Draco breaks loose and he opens his mouth wider to give Harry more access. Kissing has never felt like this, but this is so obviously what it’s supposed to feel like that he wants to laugh out loud. His head starts to spin as Harry lets go of his hand to pull him closer with an arm around his back, pressing against him, hard and hot.

Within less than a minute, Draco is breathless and almost panicked at how aroused he is. He’s lost track of everything his tongue and lips are doing in tandem with Harry’s, he only knows that it feels instinctive and incredible and he doesn’t want it to stop, but it has to because...because it just has to. It feels too good, too much.

He pulls away, shy and fearful that he’s ruining everything. Harry’s eyes open in confusion, and then he steps back, chuckling ruefully, and Draco feels his insides rearrange. Harry is still holding onto him by the hips, but their bodies aren’t touching and their lips aren’t touching and abruptly, Draco wants to plaster himself against that taut, compact body again, drown in that mouth. He smiles at himself, and at Harry, feeling like a teenager.

“So,” Harry begins, but the kettle suddenly shrieks and they both snicker, and it seems like the best possible portent, somehow. “I was going to reel you in and ravish you some more, but it appears that your kitchen appliances are protecting your virtue. Shall I—?” He asks with an eyebrow raised, gesturing towards the kettle.

He’s looking far too composed for Draco’s liking, except for the flush in his cheeks and the raw redness of his lips. And the bulge in his trousers, Draco notes with a wild thrill as his gaze drifts down. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for this.

“Yes, please,” he replies, his voice comically hoarse. He’s unsteady on his feet, weak in the knees like a bloody schoolgirl as he returns to his seat.

Harry smiles a bit wryly and attends to making coffee, returning to the table with two cups and a steaming hot carafe. Draco ignores his still-rampant erection and tries to encourage his thoughts to make sense.

“I can’t believe Scorpius isn’t up yet,” he says as Harry fills his mug. It feels like years have passed since he awakened.

“Yeah, about that,” Harry says, filling his own mug and bringing it to his face to hide a sheepish expression. “I might have helped Scorpius take the charm off, so you would think he was still asleep and not worry about him coming home yet.”

A dozen things fall into place for Draco all at once. “Have the boys been…”

“Colluding to get us together?” Harry grins, and Draco almost chokes again on his coffee. “I suspected they were with the whole Floo business.”

“I thought Scorpius just wanted me out of the house,” he says, and then the penny drops again. “Wait, have you—”

“Been colluding with them?” Harry says, ducking his head and looking smug and shy at the same time. “Only since last night. Well. That’s not strictly true. I haven’t exactly been, er, totally silent about my admiration of you.”

Draco’s eyes go wide and he can feel the color rush to his face. “What do you mean?” he says, totally befuddled. Harry has only ever been cordial to him, never flirtatious or… or admiring. He doesn’t think. Has he? He tries to think.

Harry tilts his head to the side and he looks so much like Sirius, Draco’s heart clenches. “What do you think I mean?”

“You—you said you thought of me during school, and you, what? Told your children that you admired me… It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand. This all feels really out of the blue but you’re telling me...” Draco isn’t used to surprises, not lately, and especially not ones that seem life-alteringly good. He feels ambushed, and like he wants to flee, but he’s in his own home. Harry’s hand reaches out to cover his.

The heat and power in Harry’s hand grounds him, a bit, though he still feels a bit like a wild, panicked animal.

“Do you remember taking Scorpius to school for the first time?” he asks, and Draco nods stiffly. Harry laughs. “That’s it, that was just exactly the nod you gave me that day! I hadn’t seen you in several years, not since you donated that absurd amount of money to Hermione’s campaign for the Wizengamot.  I knew you had a son, and that he would be entering Hogwarts with Albus. I was curious, that whole day, to see you.”

Draco watches Harry as he recounts this, not knowing where he’s going with it at all, but warmed simply by the idea that Harry had been thinking about him back then. Harry looks intent, captivatingly sincere.

“I nodded to you across the platform and you returned it, and then you turned to your son and gave him a talk that obviously I couldn’t hear, but I saw the effect on him and I knew, knew beyond a doubt, that you were a great father and that he loved you. I can’t really describe the effect that had on me.” He takes a deep breath. “I used to dream about you, at Hogwarts.”

Draco can’t help the startled sound he makes at that, and Harry positively smoulders at him. “You have no idea, Draco. You have _no_ idea.” Draco privately thinks he might have some idea, but his head swims and his cock throbs at the thought of Harry having the kinds of fantasies he’d had about him. “I talk in my sleep, did you know that?” This surprises a laugh out of Draco, and Harry joins in for a moment. “Yeah, it’s true, I do, and let me tell you that Ron did not appreciate hearing me moan your name and what I wanted you to do to me at three o’fucking clock in the morning.”

“What did you want me to do to you?” Draco asks, his voice huskier than he had realized it would be. His hand, the one not currently held captive in Harry’s, rests on his own thigh and he wants, so badly, to touch his cock under the table. Or, better yet, reach over to see whether Harry is responding to this like he is.

Harry strokes his palm with his thumb as he says in a low voice, “I wanted you to fuck me.”

It’s as if his lungs forget how to take in air. The room gets suddenly brighter, or maybe it’s just Harry, or maybe Draco just learned how to see what’s right in front of him and has been for some time, apparently.

“I wanted to fuck you, Harry,” Draco says in a low voice, closing his eyes as heat floods his body. “I wanted to kiss you, I wanted to be with you. My god. It was all I could think about, sometimes. I had to… had to Occlude my thoughts, over and over. It seemed like I dreamed about you every night.”

Harry’s hand clutches his again and Draco’s eyes blink open. The air between them seems to shimmer with potential. Abruptly, Harry stands, knocking the chair back. Draco can easily see the erection tenting Harry’s trousers and it’s most erotic, mesmerizing thing he’s ever seen.

Draco stands, too, and they face each other over the table, their gazes locked onto each other. It’s like a stand-off from their school days, their chests heaving and blood running high. Harry licks his lips and says, “Do you want to kiss me again?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who kissed me,” Draco drawls, and is impressed by how collected he sounds. Harry laughs.

“We Gryffindors are like that, but I get the sense that you’d prefer to be the one holding the reins.” Draco takes a sharp breath through his nose at this statement. Harry’s right, somehow. He feels the rightness of that concept through his whole body.

He walks around the table towards where Harry stands waiting for him, absolutely still but radiating an invitation. Stepping in, Draco ducks his head to brush his lips against Harry’s, flicking his tongue out to trace the shape of that lower lip that has haunted his thoughts for more than two decades. It’s exquisite, as is the sigh that Harry makes as he opens his mouth to Draco for a thorough exploration.

Draco didn’t know he could kiss like this, or that anyone would want him to. He’s devouring Harry’s mouth entirely, and Harry wraps his arms around Draco’s torso to pull him even closer, like he wants them to be fused together. His hands, which had been caressing Harry’s strong shoulders, slide down his back to his arse, and Harry lurches forward, forcing Draco to step back so he doesn’t fall down. Then he’s being walked slowly backwards until Harry has him pressed against the cabinet where he starts a slow grind against Draco’s crotch.

He groans into Harry’s mouth and pulls him even more firmly against his cock, grinding back like his life depends on it. They break the kiss, panting and staring at each other for a moment while their hips continue to move and hands roam each other’s bodies desperately. Harry buries his face in Draco’s neck and bites the skin and tendon there, and Draco shudders and comes in his pants. Harry utters a long moan and is obviously coming as well, and they lean into each other for a moment, breathing heavily.

After a few seconds, Draco begins to laugh helplessly, giddy and relieved and also nervous, like an adolescent. Which, where physically satisfying sexual encounters are concerned, he basically still is.

“What are you laughing at?” Harry murmurs into his ear, punctuating it with a nip to his earlobe. Draco pulls back, steadying himself with a hand on the counter next to Harry’s hip.

“It’s a bit pathetic, is all, us coming in our pants like teenagers,” he says, brushing the hair off Harry’s face and watching as his eyes close. Harry laughs ruefully, shifting under Draco to adjust himself.

“Well, we’re making up for lost time,” he says with a half-smile, and Draco doesn’t have time to process the way his stomach does a slow roll at the implications of that statement because he hears the sound of the Floo in the sitting room.

“Bugger,” he says, stepping hastily away from Harry and looking towards the door. Harry performs a wandless cleaning spell on both of them, snickering. Then Scorpius and Albus burst into the room, chattering about the animated comic books that Albus got in his stocking. They come to a dead halt when they catch sight of Harry and Draco, the three careful feet between them entirely failing to erase the obvious fact that they’ve been nearly caught in the act.

Albus looks from his dad to Draco and back, and Scorpius does the same in reverse. Then they look at each other and start backing out of the room quickly, muttering something about having come over to retrieve something Scorpius borrowed from Albus, so sorry to intrude, we’ll be going now.  Harry drops his head to hide his enormous grin and Draco has to put his hand over his mouth to stop the horrified laughter that wants to escape.

Albus, however, stops just short of leaving the room to ask, “Hey, Dad, is it okay if Scorpius stays the night at Grandma’s tonight? She already said yes but I’m just checking.” He’s not meeting Harry’s eyes and he’s clearly unable to look at Draco at the moment.

Harry coughs and says, “It’s up to Draco, of course.”

Draco cuts a sideways glance over to Harry and says, “Sure. I have something to catch up on tonight, anyway.” Harry beams at him, then schools his expression back to neutral and nods, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Albus blanches and squeaks, “Okay!” then flees up the stairs to Scorpius’ room. Draco can hear them giggling in the corridor and then a door shuts and all is silent.

“So,” begins Harry, closing the distance between them again. “Are you coming to my place or am I coming to yours?”

“I don’t care which, as long as neither of us comes in our pants again,” Draco says, adjusting himself. The cleaning spell had been quickly done and none too efficient. He smirks at Harry, again impressed by how well he’s handling this unprecedented, overwhelming situation. One would almost think he resolved two decades of romantic and sexual tension on a daily basis. No big deal.

He’s so busy congratulating himself on his sang froid that he’s startled when Harry wraps a hand around his waist and pulls him flush against that firm, warm body, his other hand dipping into the waistband of Draco’s trousers. “Where would you prefer to come?”

A surge of desire floods Draco’s veins and he covers Harry’s mouth with his own, kissing him deeply before pulling away just far enough to murmur, “Inside you.”

In lieu of response, Harry groans and ends the kiss with a tug of his teeth on Draco’s lower lip. “That’s going to be the best Christmas present ever,” he says, his eyes full of heat and promise.

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

Christmas morning - One year later

“Mmmph--whuzzat?” Harry mumbles as he rolls onto his stomach and away from Draco’s attempt to kiss him.

“I said, wake up, the kids are already in the den, most likely.”

Harry undulates deeper into the covers in an attempt to avoid waking up, but Draco is wise to him by now. “If you don’t wake up, you won’t get your Christmas present,” he warns in a sultry voice. Harry just moans and burrows further into the sheets. In all fairness, they were both up all night working on the improved planetarium in the wizarding-space den that joined their two houses. And then celebrating the fruits of their hard work with even more… hard work.

Draco reaches under the covers and slides his hand up Harry’s leg to palm his arsecheek and knead it firmly, causing a moan of a different kind. He smirks and pulls the covers down, bringing his other hand and the other cheek together. Harry’s hips shift slightly in time with the groping but his eyes are still closed, so Draco drags one finger down his cleft to test and finds that Harry is still a bit slick from last night. He waggles the tip in experimentally and is rewarded with a vigorous thrust against the bed, so he does it again, smirking. “By all means, keep your eyes closed,” he purrs. “Your present can be a surprise.”

Harry laughs. “Is it the same thing you got me last year?” He punctuates this question with a backwards roll of his hips onto Draco’s hand and lets out another soft moan. A second finger slides in and Draco helps it along with a wandless Lubricus. He scissors a little and then angles up, and Harry bucks wildly, but his eyes are still stubbornly shut and his head still pillowed on his arms.

“No,” Draco announces, “it’s significantly better than last year’s.” He slicks his cock and lines it up, admiring how large the head looks against Harry’s entrance. Harry chuckles again, then gasps as the head squeezes in.

“How so?” he asks, a bit strangled. His eyes are pinched shut now and his arms are taut with tension as he rears back to meet Draco’s thrust.

“This year I know what I’m doing,” he grunts, sliding all the way in and then out again, a slow drag across the prostate he tortured just hours before. Poor Harry, this time of year makes Draco terribly nostalgic and fond and aroused and needy. He can’t help it. The timing of one’s sexual awakening is important, and the id may imprint on the unlikeliest of things. Mistletoe and Christmas carols and gift-wrap, for instance. Fairy lights and panettone.

And Harry, flat on his back, with his ankles over Draco’s shoulders, crying out in ecstasy as Draco fucked him for the first time on Christmas Day.

So it’s no wonder that Draco gets amorous this time of year. He has a feeling it’s going to be an ongoing thing.

He drags Harry up so he’s flush with Draco’s body, back to chest, bobbing up and down on his cock, all pretense of sleep gone, though his eyelids are still heavy.  Draco fucks up into him gently and slowly for a while, then deeply and slowly, and then faster and rougher until Harry’s limp with bliss and his stiff cock bounces helplessly, slapping against his belly. When Harry is like this, just taking it, euphoric with pleasure, he wants to come and come and come until he fills him up entirely. With one hand wrapped around Harry’s prick, Draco lets go and does just that, biting Harry’s neck when he comes so he doesn’t cry out.

They slump down sideways onto the sheets and Harry laughs weakly. “I’ve created a monster.”

“A god, you mean,” Draco retorts. “And a ‘thank you’ might be nice,” he adds, poking Harry in the stomach.

Harry gives him a slow, sly, sweet smile, his eyes fond and sleepy. “Thank you for my present, Draco Abraxas Malfoy. It was ever so thoughtful.”

Draco thwacks him across the chest, then rolls on top of him and kisses him, deep and soft.

The Vigiliae charm goes off and Draco reluctantly pries himself away from Harry’s body, pulling him up with him. “Time to play St. Nick,” he says. “Scorpius is up, and I’ll bet Ginny and Luna have already arrived. Luna’s probably making her infamous spiced lemon eggnog coffee, and I have to stop her.”

They go down the stairs, still pulling on their robes (in Draco’s case) and cardigan (in Harry’s), to the sounds of Lily and Albus fighting over who gets to help Luna make the eggnog-lemon-coffee-bilge. Harry breaks up the fight while Draco commandeers the coffeemaker to make actual coffee prior to any experimental concoctions, thanking Luna for her patience and generosity.

Scorpius and Sirius are engaged in a deep conversation about the merits of pranks involving mistletoe versus the overused nature of said pranks when James Floos in with Teddy stumbling behind him. Sirius has met Teddy a few times and at first tended to get a little teary around him, but a week spent in Teddy and James’ flat cured him of that. Now they’re the best of friends and it makes Harry a little teary to see it.

Ginny and Luna are in the kitchen, making cinnamon rolls and sausages while Luna serenades Ginny with what she swears is a traditional Elvish betrothal song. Given that they’ve just gotten married, Ginny points out that it’s a bit late for Elvish wooing.

Harry sits on the couch and watches as the kids go through their stockings, and Draco brings him a cup of coffee and perches next to him on the arm of the comfortable sofa. “When should we reveal the changes we made to the planetarium?” Draco whispers in Harry’s ear. “I don’t think Sirius is going to be able to keep his mouth shut much longer.”

Indeed, Sirius is giving them intense looks from across the room, where he hangs over the fireplace. He keeps holding his hand up and waggling his fingers at Harry, who keeps nodding and holding his index finger up to him in a “just wait for it” gesture.

“Everybody, Draco and I have an announcement to make,” Harry says, putting his coffee mug down on the table and standing up. “If you’ll direct your attention upwards?”

The whole family looks up and Harry waves his wand over the rune box controlling the magical projector. The enchanted ceiling shifts from tarted-up Christmas-themed constellations to a menu of movies and tv shows and video games unlike anything the wizarding world has yet seen. Lily lets out a scream, the boys all cheer, and Ginny and Luna gasp when they see the Muggle nature documentary section. Everyone is either lying on the couches or the floor, staring upwards as Harry gives Albus a quick tutorial on how to use the rune box. A lively, if not riotous, debate starts about what to watch first, and Ginny (who naturally had been in on the planning for this) begins a prepared lecture on time limits and the importance of exercise and socialization.

Meanwhile, Harry slips his hand into Draco’s and Draco smiles, then frowns. There’s something in Harry’s hand, something cool and round and… He looks into Harry’s eyes, which are dancing with mischief and fondness and hope. It’s a ring.

It has their names engraved on it.

“Merry Christmas, Draco,” Harry whispers and Draco just gapes at him.

“Is this a… are you proposing?”

Harry leans over and presses his lips to Draco’s forehead. “Only if you want me to,” he says. “It could be just a ring. A very nice ring. With our names on it. Hyphenated.”

Draco’s eyes tear up and spill over and he’s glad no one is watching them. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “I want you to.”

“Alright, then. Will you marry me?” Harry asks, wrapping his arm around Draco’s shoulders as their children finally decide on a movie. ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ starts playing. Draco’s never seen it.

He nods, speechless for a moment. “Yes,” he manages to say, and then Harry is kissing him, and when he stops some long minutes later, Draco looks over to see Sirius grinning like a maniac.

“Thank you,” he mouths, and Sirius winks.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on tumblr! @oceaxereturns


End file.
